“Could I have but died,” she repeated to herself.  “Oh, could I have but died!”

Raymond laid his head against the coverlet and sobbed.  He needed no words to tell him what was in her mind; that her illness had used up the little money there was to spare; that she, so long the support of both, was now a helpless burden on his hands.  Pity for her outweighed every other consideration.  His own loss seemed but little in comparison to hers.  It was the concluding tragedy of those five tragic years.  The battle, through no fault of theirs, had gone against them.  The dream of a professional career was over.

His mother grew better.  The doctor ceased his visits.  She was able to get on her feet again.  She took over their pinched housekeeping.  But her step was heavy; the gaunt, grim straight-backed woman, with her thin grey hair and set mouth, was no more than a spectre of her former self.  The doctor was right.  There was nothing before her but lifelong invalidism.

Raymond found work; a place in the auditing department of a railroad, with a salary to begin with of sixty dollars a month; in ten years he might hope to get a hundred.  But he was one of those whose back bent easily to misfortune.  Heaven knew, he had been schooled long enough to take its blows with fortitude.  His mother and he could manage comfortably on sixty dollars a month; and when he laid his first earnings in her hand he even smiled with satisfaction.  She took the money in silence, her heart too full to ask him whence it came.  She had hoped against hope until that moment; and the bills, as she looked at them, seemed to sting her shrivelled hand.

One day, as she was cleaning her son’s room, she opened a box that stood in the corner, and was surprised to find it contain a package done up in wrapping paper.  She opened it with curiosity and the tears sprang to her eyes as she saw the second-hand medical books George had used at college.  Here they were, in neat wrappers, laid by for ever.  Too precious to throw away, too articulate of unfulfilled ambitions to stand exposed on shelves, they had been laid away in the grave of her son’s hopes.  She did them up again with trembling fingers, and that night when George returned to supper, he found his mother in the dark, crying.

II

In the years from nineteen to forty-two most men have fulfilled their destiny; those who have had within them the ability to rise have risen; the weak, the wastrels, the mediocrities have shaken down into their appointed places.  Even the bummer has his own particular bit of wall in front of the saloon and his own particular chair within.  Those who have something to do are busy doing it, whatever it may be.  In the human comedy everyone in time finds his role and must play it to the end, happy indeed if he be cast in a part that at all suits him.