She departed, a sigh from the abyss following her as she went down the hall.  Her comforting words meant nothing pleasant to her son, who felt that her optimism was out of place and tactless.  He had no intention to be “all right,” and he desired nobody to interfere with his misery.

He went to his mirror, and, gazing long—­long and piercingly—­at the William there limned, enacted, almost unconsciously, a little scene of parting.  The look of suffering upon the mirrored face slowly altered; in its place came one still sorrowful, but tempered with sweet indulgence.  He stretched out his hand, as if he set it upon a head at about the height of his shoulder.

“Yes, it may mean—­it may mean forever!” he said in a low, tremulous voice.  “Little girl, we must be brave!”

And the while his eyes gazed into the mirror, they became expressive of a momentary pleased surprise, as if, even in the arts of sorrow, he found himself doing better than he knew.  But his sorrow was none the less genuine because of that.

Then he noticed the ink upon his forehead, and went away to wash.  When he returned he did an unusual thing—­he brushed his coat thoroughly, removing it for this special purpose.  After that, he earnestly combed and brushed his hair, and retied his tie.  Next, he took from a drawer two clean handkerchiefs.  He placed one in his breast pocket, part of the colored border of the handkerchief being left on exhibition, and with the other he carefully wiped his shoes.  Finally, he sawed it back and forth across them, and, with a sigh, languidly dropped it upon the floor, where it remained.

Returning to the mirror, he again brushed his hair—­he went so far, this time, as to brush his eyebrows, which seemed not much altered by the operation.  Suddenly, he was deeply affected by something seen in the glass.

“By George!” he exclaimed aloud.

Seizing a small hand-mirror, he placed it in juxtaposition to his right eye, and closely studied his left profile as exhibited in the larger mirror.  Then he examined his right profile, subjecting it to a like scrutiny emotional, yet attentive and prolonged.

“By George!” he exclaimed, again.  “By George!”

He had made a discovery.  There was a downy shadow upon his upper lip.  What he had just found out was that this down could be seen projecting beyond the line of his lip, like a tiny nimbus.  It could be seen in profile.

“By George!” William exclaimed.

He was still occupied with the two mirrors when his mother again tapped softly upon his door, rousing him as from a dream (brief but engaging) to the heavy realities of that day.

“What you want now?”

“I won’t come in,” said Mrs. Baxter.  “I just came to see.”

“See what?”

“I wondered—­I thought perhaps you needed something.  I knew your watch was out of order—­”

“F’r ’evan’s sake what if it is?”