And he poked the fire, and tried to think You know, our English friends depend almost wholly on the open grate fire, as we do so largely in the South.  And it’s a great thing, is the open grate fire.  It’s a fire.  It warms your body, at least in front in extreme weather.  But it’s more than a fire.  It’s a stimulus to thought.  It refreshes your spirit, and rests your tired nerves, and it is a wonderful thing to help you unravel knotty problems.  So he poked the fire and thought, while she, quite unconscious of his embarrassment, went on sipping her tea and talking.

It would never do to have her come there, he thought.  And his thoughts went to the circle of friends at the dinner table in the evening, and to the critical city servants that ran his bachelor establishment.  And just then his ear caught anew the broad provincial twist on her tongue.  He had never noticed it so broad, so decided, before.  And she was talking the small countryside talk, chickens and an epidemic among them.  And that grated strangely.  It certainly wouldn’t do to have her come there.

Then the tide began to rise gently on the beach of his heart.  He thought, “She’s my mother.  And if mother wants to come here, here she comes.”  And he straightened up in his chair, as he gave a gentler touch to a blazing lump of coal.  Then the tide ebbed.  It began running out again.  “No, it would hardly do.”  And he poked and thought.  Finally he broke into her run of talk.

“Mother, you know it is not very healthful here.  We have bad fogs in London.  And you’re used to the wholesome country air.  It wouldn’t agree with you here, I’m afraid.  I’ll get a little cottage on the edge of town, and I’ll come and see you very often.”

And the dear old woman sensed at once just what he was thinking.  She was not stupid, if she was just a plain homely body.  He got his brains from his simple country mother, as many a man of note has done.  But she spoke not of what she felt.  She simply said, with that quietness which grows out of strong self-control: 

“It’s a bit late the night, Laddie, I’m thinking, to be talking about new plans.”

And he said softly, “Forgive me, mother:  it is late, I forgot.”  And he showed her to her sleeping apartment.

“And where do you sleep, Laddie?”

“Right here, mother, this first door on the left.  Be sure to call me if you need anything.”

And he bade her a tender “good-night,” and went back to his study to do some more thinking and planning.  And very late he came up to his sleeping-chamber.  And he was just cuddling his head into the soft pillow for the night, when the door opened, so softly, and in there came a little body in simple white night garb, with a quaint old-fashioned nightcap on, candle in hand.  She came in very softly.  And he started up.

“Mother, are you ill?  What’s the matter?”

And she came over very quietly, and put down the candle on the table before she answered.  And then softly: