Now everything, though outwardly the same, was changed by the new point of view, which he realized that he had already tried to conceal from his mother, by his scanty account of the festival.  He had been suddenly confronted by conditions that he never expected to meet outside of the pages of fiction, and felt himself utterly unable to combat them.  Under the present circumstances even neighbourly friendship with Sylvia would be difficult.  It was not that Mrs. Latham had overawed him in the least, but she had raised in him so fierce and blinding a resentment by her only half unconscious reference to his mother, that he resolved that under no circumstances should she run the risk of being equally rebuffed.  He would protect her from a possible intercourse, where she could not be expected, at her age, to hold her own, at no matter what cost to himself.

“Egg woman!” Was it not his mother’s pride and endeavour, her thrift and courage to carry on the great farm alone, and the price of such things as those very eggs, that had carried through his dying father’s wish, and sent him to college, thus giving him his chance in the world?  No regret at the fact, no false pride, dawned on him even for a second.  All his rage was that such a woman as Sylvia’s mother should have the power to stir him so, and then his love for Sylvia herself, intensified by pity for the unknown trouble that he sensed rather than read in her face, cut into him like a wound.  He felt as if he must pick her up in his strong arms and bear her away from all those clamouring people; and then the realization both of his inability and ignorance of her own attitude fell upon him like a chill, for she had never written or said a word to him that might not have passed between any two college friends.  Such thoughts occupied him, until finally, as often fortunately happens in our mental crises, a humdrum, domestic voice, the supper bell, called him, and leaving his garments strewn about the room, he went downstairs.

His mother was still sitting in the porch, and he became at once conscious of a change in her appearance.  As she looked up in pleased expectancy, he recognized the cause, and his sternness vanished instantly, as he said, “How fine we look to-night,” and half sitting on the little foot-bench beside her, and half kneeling, he touched the soft lace, and gently kissed the withered cheek whose blood was still not so far from the surface but that it could return in answer to the caress, while she looked yearningly into the eyes that even now were hardly on a level with hers, as if searching for the cause of what might be troubling him.  Yet she only said, as they rose and went indoors, “I put on your gifts for you, at our first supper together,” adding with an unconsciousness that made Horace smile in spite of himself,—­“besides, I shouldn’t wonder if some of the neighbours might drop in to see us, for it must have got about by this time that you’ve come home; the mail carrier saw you drive out this morning, I’m quite sure.”