"I forbid it absolutely. If you go, it is against my will."
He saw that she meant it. It was vain to protest. He rose.
"I have no time to lose, mother. Pray for me."
"That I do always, but I shall not forgive you; no—yes, kiss me. I did not mean that; but think of my life, of yours, what it owes me. You will not go, my son."
"Yes, I am going. I should be base, a coward, ungrateful, if I did not go. Good-by, mother. Let them know at Mrs. Swanwick's."
He was gone. She sat still a little while, and then rising, she looked out and saw him go down the garden path, a knapsack on his back.
"His father would never have left me. Ah, but he is my son—all of him. He was right to go, and I was weak, but, my God, life is very hard!" For a moment she looked after his retreating figure, and then, fearless, quiet, and self-contained, took up again the never-finished embroidery.