In the evening they sat together, John Morrison and his mother, with the curtains drawn, and the clear fire glowing on the red bricks of the fireplace. The old lady, after her custom, was prone to silence. Since Hilda's death she had said little, sparing the occasion the triviality of useless words. That afternoon she had ridden with her son to the funeral, holding him up with her strength, fortifying him with her courage. But now that his wife was gone for ever, and the pleasant house was overcast with its haunting emptiness, it seemed that her power was gone.
She had a piece of knitting to occupy her fingers, and over it she watched her son. He had been stunned when Hilda died, bewildered and uncomprehending; for no young man fully grasps the meaning of death. Now, as he sat, he seemed to be convincing himself. He had brought down his dead wife's work-basket and a drawer from her dressing- table. He sat in a low arm-chair, and had them beside him on the floor, and fingered deliberately among their contents for definite things, little landmarks of lost days that stabbed him with their associations. But what stirred his mother was not the sorrow of his loss so much as the uncertainty of parted lips and knitted brows that softened his thin, aquiline face, so strongly in contrast with his habit of brisk assurance.
She spoke at last. "John, dear, you should go to bed now," she said.
"It's past eleven, my boy; and I'm afraid you'll wear yourself out."
He had a small silver-backed hand-mirror in his hands. He had been staring into the glass of it for ten minutes. He looked up now and shook his head. "I couldn't," he answered. "I couldn't, mother. There's no sleep in me."
"But John——" began the mother again.
"Please don't bother about me," he interrupted. "I couldn't sleep, really. And I couldn't bear to lie awake—alone." His eyes dropped toward the mirror again. "You know," he said, "it's only now, mother, that I realize that Hilda is really gone. I can't explain it very well, but before this evening it seemed—well, it seemed idiotic to think that my wife was dead. It felt impossible, somehow."
"My poor boy!" said the old lady gently.
"And even now," he went on, with bowed head, "I have fancies."
"What fancies, John?" asked Mrs. Morrison.
He laid the mirror down on the floor, and glanced over his shoulder toward the door of the room before he answered. Then he looked at his mother squarely.