had coursed, a glow where there had been a grayish pallor. She leaned
back a bit to survey this son of hers.

"Ugh! how black you are!" It was the old Emma McChesney that spoke.
"You young devil, you're actually growing a mustache! There's
something hard in your left-hand vest pocket. If it's your fountain
pen you'd better rescue it, because I'm going to hug you again."

But Jock McChesney was not smiling. He glanced around the stuffy
little hotel room. It looked stuffier and drearier than ever in
contrast with his radiant youth, his glowing freshness, his outdoor
tan, his immaculate attire. He looked at the astonished Miss Riordon.
At his gaze that lady muttered something, and fled, sample-case
banging at her knees. At the look in his eyes his mother hastened,
woman-wise, to reassure him.

[Illustration: "At his gaze that lady fled, sample-case banging at her
knees"]

"It wasn't so bad, Jock. Now that you're here, it's all right. Jock, I
didn't realize just what you meant to me until you didn't come. I
didn't realize--"

Jock sat down at the edge of the bed, and slid one arm under his
mother's head. There was a grim line about his mouth.

"And I've been fishing," he said. "I've been sprawling under a tree in
front of a darned fool stream and wondering whether to fry 'em for
lunch now, or to put my hat over my eyes and fall asleep."