He kept a sharp watch upon the road for other female friends of his
mother's, who, he was resolved, should not enter.

"Them women will only get her all stirred up again. She's got to get
used to it, and they'll just hinder her," he said, quite aloud to
himself, having in some strange fashion discovered the truth that the
human mind must adjust itself to its true balance after the upheaval
of sorrow.

After the beans were planted it was only nine o'clock. Jerome went
soberly down the garden-slope, stepping carefully between the planted
ridges, then into the house, with a noiseless lift of the latch and
glide over the threshold; for Elmira signalled him from the window to
be still.

His mother sat in her high-backed rocker, fast asleep, her sharp eyes
closed, her thin mouth gaping, an expression of vacuous peace over
her whole face, and all her wiry little body relaxed. Jerome motioned
to Elmira, and the two tiptoed out across the little front entry to
the parlor.

"How long has she been asleep?" whispered Jerome.

"'Most an hour. You don't s'pose mother's goin' to die too, do you,
Jerome?"

"Course she ain't."

"I never saw her go to sleep in the daytime before. Mother don't act
a mite like herself. She 'ain't spoke out to me once this mornin',"