“No hurry.  I’m just taking them down so they’ll be ready.”

Mrs. Wheeler ran after him, calling faintly, “Wait, Ralph!  Are you sure he’s got everything in?  I didn’t hear him packing.”

“Everything ready.  He says he won’t have to go upstairs again.  He’ll be along pretty soon.  There’s lots of time.”  Ralph shot down through the basement.

Mrs. Wheeler sat down in her reading chair.  They wanted to keep her away, and it was a little selfish of them.  Why couldn’t they spend these last hours quietly in the house, instead of dashing in and out to frighten her?  Now she could hear the hot water running in the kitchen; probably Mr. Wheeler had come in to wash his hands.  She felt really too weak to get up and go to the west window to see if he were still down at the garage.  Waiting was now a matter of seconds, and her breath came short enough as it was.

She recognized a heavy, hob-nailed boot on the stairs, mounting quickly.  When Claude entered, carrying his hat in his hand, she saw by his walk, his shoulders, and the way he held his head, that the moment had come, and that he meant to make it short.  She rose, reaching toward him as he came up to her and caught her in his arms.  She was smiling her little, curious intimate smile, with half-closed eyes.

“Well, is it good-bye?” she murmured.  She passed her hands over his shoulders, down his strong back and the close-fitting sides of his coat, as if she were taking the mould and measure of his mortal frame.  Her chin came just to his breast pocket, and she rubbed it against the heavy cloth.  Claude stood looking down at her without speaking a word.  Suddenly his arms tightened and he almost crushed her.

“Mother!” he whispered as he kissed her.  He ran downstairs and out of the house without looking back.

She struggled up from the chair where she had sunk and crept to the window; he was vaulting down the hill as fast as he could go.  He jumped into the car beside his father.  Ralph was already at the wheel, and Claude had scarcely touched the cushions when they were off.  They ran down the creek and over the bridge, then up the long hill on the other side.  As they neared the crest of the hill, Claude stood up in the car and looked back at the house, waving his cone-shaped hat.  She leaned out and strained her sight, but her tears blurred everything.  The brown, upright figure seemed to float out of the car and across the fields, and before he was actually gone, she lost him.  She fell back against the windowsill, clutching her temples with both hands, and broke into choking, passionate speech.  “Old eyes,” she cried, “why do you betray me?  Why do you cheat me of my last sight of my splendid son!”

Book Four:  The Voyage of the Anchises

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