She was still sitting there when Jackson passed on his way to bed, after leaving the office in charge of the night porter. He faltered, as he went by, and as he stood on the threshold she told him what Jeff had told her.
“That's good,” he said, lifelessly. “Good for Jeff,” he added, thoughtfully, conscientiously.
“Why a'n't it good for her, too?” demanded Jeff's mother, in quick resentment of the slight put upon him.
“I didn't say it wa'n't,” said Jackson. “But it's better for Jeff.”
“She may be very glad to get him!”
“I presume she is. She's always cared for him, I guess. She'll know how to manage him.”
“I don't know,” said Mrs. Durgin, “as I like to have you talk so, about Jeff. He was here, just now, wantin' to give up his last year in Harvard, so 's to let you go off on a vacation. He thinks you've worked yourself down.”
Jackson made no recognition of Jeff's professed self-sacrifice. “I don't want any vacation. I'm feeling first-rate now. I guess that stuff I had from the writin' medium has begun to take hold of me. I don't know when I've felt so well. I believe I'm going to get stronger than ever I was. Jeff say I needed a rest?”
Something like a smile of compassion for the delusion of his brother dawned upon the sick man's wasted face, which was blotched with large freckles, and stared with dim, large eyes from out a framework of grayish hair, and grayish beard cut to the edges of the cheeks and chin.