The mother came presently, carrying a bag of wool.  “A big herd of sheep went by this afternoon,” she explained, “and they left a lot of fine wool on the barbed-wire fences.  See, I have gathered enough for a pair of stockings.”  She seated herself.

“You’re tired,” said Dorian.

“Yes.”

“Well, you sit and rest; I’ll soon have the supper on the table.”  This was no difficult task, as the evening meal was usually a very simple one, and Dorian had frequently prepared it.  This evening as the mother sat there quietly she looked at her son with admiring eyes.  What a big boy he was getting to be!  He had always been big, it seemed to her.  He had been a big baby and a big little boy, and now he was a big young man.  He had a big head and big feet, big hands.  His nose and mouth were big, and big freckles dotted his face—­yes, and a big heart, as his mother very well knew.  Along with his bigness of limb and body there was a certain awkwardness.  He never could run as fast as the other boys, and he always fumbled the ball in their games though he could beat them swimming.  So far in his youthful career he had not learned to dance.  The one time he had tried, his girl partner had made fun of his awkwardness, so that ended his dancing.  But Dorian was not clumsy about his mother’s home and table.  He handled the dishes as daintily as a girl, and the table was set and the food served in a very proper manner.

“Did you get your shoes, Dorian?”

Dorian burned his fingers on a dish which was not at all hot.

“Mother, sit up; supper is ready.”

They both drew up their chairs.  Dorian asked the blessing, then became unusually solicitous in helping his mother, continually talking as he did so.

“That little Duke girl was nearly drowned in the canal, this afternoon,” he told her, going on with the details.  “She’s a plucky little thing.  Ten minutes after I had her out of the canal, she was as lively as ever.”

The mother liked to hear him talk, so she did not interrupt him.  After they had eaten, he forced her to take her rocking-chair while he cleared the table and washed the few dishes.  She asked no more questions about shoes, but leaned back in her chair with half-closed eyes.  Dorian thought to give her the mint lozenges, but fearing that it might lead to more questions, he did not.

Mrs. Trent was not old in years, but hard work had bent her back and roughened her hands.  Her face was pleasant to look upon, even if there were some wrinkles now, and the hair was white at the temples.  She closed her eyes as if she were going to sleep.

“Now, mother, you’re going to bed”, said Dorian.  “You have tired yourself out with this wool picking.  I thought I told you before that I would gather what wool there was.”

“But you weren’t here, and I could not stand to see the wind blowing it away.  See, what a fine lot I got.”  She opened her bundle and displayed her fleece.