He walked with me to my door, and there I met old Pettigrew coming down the steps.  He looked dusty and tired, but his eye was brighter than it used to be, and he carried in a rather unaccustomed manner, a workman’s tool basket.

“How’s the rheumatism, Mr. Pettigrew?” I asked.

“Dietary,” said old Pettigrew, “can work wonders. . . .”  He looked me in the eye.  “These houses,” he said, “will have to come down, I suppose, and our notions of property must undergo very considerable revision—­in the light of reason; but meanwhile I’ve been doing something to patch that disgraceful roof of mine!  To think that I could have dodged and evaded------”

He raised a deprecatory hand, drew down the loose corners of his ample mouth, and shook his old head.

“The past is past, Mr. Pettigrew.”

“Your poor dear mother!  So good and honest a woman!  So simple and kind and forgiving!  To think of it!  My dear young man!”—­he said it manfully—­“I’m ashamed.”

“The whole world blushed at dawn the other day, Mr. Pettigrew,” I said, “and did it very prettily.  That’s over now.  God knows, who is not ashamed of all that came before last Tuesday.”

I held out a forgiving hand, naively forgetful that in this place I was a thief, and he took it and went his way, shaking his head and repeating he was ashamed, but I think a little comforted.

The door opened and my poor old mother’s face, marvelously cleaned, appeared.  “Ah, Willie, boy!  You.  You!”

I ran up the steps to her, for I feared she might fall.

How she clung to me in the passage, the dear woman! . . .

But first she shut the front door.  The old habit of respect for my unaccountable temper still swayed her.  “Ah deary!” she said, “ah deary!  But you were sorely tried,” and kept her face close to my shoulder, lest she should offend me by the sight of the tears that welled within her.

She made a sort of gulping noise and was quiet for a while, holding me very tightly to her heart with her worn, long hands . . .

She thanked me presently for my telegram, and I put my arm about her and drew her into the living room.

“It’s all well with me, mother dear,” I said, “and the dark times are over—­are done with for ever, mother.”

Whereupon she had courage and gave way and sobbed aloud, none chiding her.

She had not let me know she could still weep for five grimy years. . . .

Section 2

Dear heart!  There remained for her but a very brief while in this world that had been renewed.  I did not know how short that time would be, but the little I could do—­perhaps after all it was not little to her—­to atone for the harshness of my days of wrath and rebellion, I did.  I took care to be constantly with her, for I perceived now her curious need of me.  It was not that we had ideas to exchange or pleasures to share, but she liked to see me at table, to watch me working, to have me go to and fro.  There was no toil for her any more in the world, but only such light services as are easy and pleasant for a worn and weary old woman to do, and I think she was happy even at her end.