g upon her she felt
like one partially paralyzed, but with the need upon her to rise and
walk--to _run_.

She started at once, scarcely allowing herself time to explain to her
friend. She would listen to no urgings at all.

"I've got to go, Cicely--I've promised my little son," was all she
took time to say; and the friend, knowing of the telephone message,
supposed it had been a telephone promise.

At the station they told her there was another train at seven-thirty,
and she walked about uneasily until it came. Walking about seemed to
hurry it along the rails to her.

Another woman waited and walked with her. Another mother of little
sons, she decided whimsically, reading it in the sweet, quiet face.
The other woman was in widow's black, and she thought how merciful it
was that there should be a little son left her. She yielded to an
inclination to speak.

"The train is late," she said. "It must be."

"No." The other woman glanced backward at the station clock. "It's
we who are early."

"And in a hurry," laughed Murray's mother, in the relief of speech.
"I've got to get home to put my little son to bed! I don't suppose
you are going home for that?"

The sweet face for an instant lost its quietness. Something like a
spasm of mortal pain crossed it and twisted it. The woman walked away
abruptly, but came back. "I've been home and--put him to bed," she
said, slowly--"in his last little bed."

Then Murray's mother found herself hurrying feverishly into a car,
her face feeling wet and queer. She was crying.

"Oh, the poor woman!" she thought, "the poor woman! And I'm going
home to a little live one. I can cover him up and tuck him in! I can
kiss his little, solemn face and his little, brown knees. Why haven't
I ever kissed his knees before? If I could only hurry! Will this car
ever start?" She put her head out of the window. An oily personage
in jumpers was passing.

"Why don't we start?" she said.

"Hot box," the oily person replied, laconically.

The delay was considerable to a mother going home to put her little
child to bed. It seemed to this mother interminable. When at length
she felt a welcome jar and lurch her patience was threadbare. She sat
bolt upright, as if by so doing she were helping things along.

It was an express and leaped ahead splendidly, catching up with
itself. Her thoughts leaped ahead with it. No, no, he would not be in
bed. Sheelah was not going to tell him, so he would insist upo