Philip looked at her commiseratingly. With his hand he brushed away the white hair lying in disorder upon her forehead.
“Poor mother, poor mother! and you have been so proud of him!”
“As I shall always be. My poor Anson! As I shall always be—as I am of all of you.” She smiled bravely through her tears.
“I shall go for the money. I'd better go at once or I may find the bank closed.”
He spoke collectedly and his mother did not divine from any words of his that he was preparing to make the greatest sacrifice possible to him. Nor would he have her know. There was misery enough for her as it was. Yet the thought of what he had to do brought him unspeakable agony. It was not the loss of money, for money of itself was nothing to him, but everything in his little world was held in place by what he was giving up.
“I shall get the money,” he repeated quietly. “I shall go for it at once.”
“You are so good!” she cried. “You were always my comfort. I can rely upon you more than on the others.”
She reached up and kissed him again and again. “Though no one ever knows of the sacrifice you make, Anson and I will, and we will honor you for it. Do not think that we undervalue it.” He kissed her softly. No amount of praise could have wrung the money from him, but her tears had been more potent.
“You don't care,” she questioned, “that the girls are not to be told of what you do for Anson?”
“No, dear. Glory of that sort does not in the least appeal to me. I have no objections to being deprived of it. What I do I do quite willingly. I am satisfied with your thanks and the consciousness that I have in a measure eased this burden for you.” He smiled sadly down upon her. “Now I will go,” and unclasping her arms from about his neck, he turned and left the room.