By the door of her son’s room the mother knelt upon the floor and listened for some sound from within.  When she heard the boy moving about and talking in low tones a smile came to her lips.  George Willard had a habit of talking aloud to himself and to hear him doing so had always given his mother a peculiar pleasure.  The habit in him, she felt, strengthened the secret bond that existed between them.  A thousand times she had whispered to herself of the matter.  “He is groping about, trying to find himself,” she thought.  “He is not a dull clod, all words and smartness.  Within him there is a secret something that is striving to grow.  It is the thing I let be killed in myself.”

In the darkness in the hallway by the door the sick woman arose and started again toward her own room.  She was afraid that the door would open and the boy come upon her.  When she had reached a safe distance and was about to turn a corner into a second hallway she stopped and bracing herself with her hands waited, thinking to shake off a trembling fit of weakness that had come upon her.  The presence of the boy in the room had made her happy.  In her bed, during the long hours alone, the little fears that had visited her had become giants.  Now they were all gone.  “When I get back to my room I shall sleep,” she murmured gratefully.

But Elizabeth Willard was not to return to her bed and to sleep.  As she stood trembling in the darkness the door of her son’s room opened and the boy’s father, Tom Willard, stepped out.  In the light that steamed out at the door he stood with the knob in his hand and talked.  What he said infuriated the woman.

Tom Willard was ambitious for his son.  He had always thought of himself as a successful man, although nothing he had ever done had turned out successfully.  However, when he was out of sight of the New Willard House and had no fear of coming upon his wife, he swaggered and began to dramatize himself as one of the chief men of the town.  He wanted his son to succeed.  He it was who had secured for the boy the position on the Winesburg Eagle.  Now, with a ring of earnestness in his voice, he was advising concerning some course of conduct.  “I tell you what, George, you’ve got to wake up,” he said sharply.  “Will Henderson has spoken to me three times concerning the matter.  He says you go along for hours not hearing when you are spoken to and acting like a gawky girl.  What ails you?” Tom Willard laughed good-naturedly.  “Well, I guess you’ll get over it,” he said.  “I told Will that.  You’re not a fool and you’re not a woman.  You’re Tom Willard’s son and you’ll wake up.  I’m not afraid.  What you say clears things up.  If being a newspaper man had put the notion of becoming a writer into your mind that’s all right.  Only I guess you’ll have to wake up to do that too, eh?”