more than that, the heart in her bosom would have proved her sex
to her; how she loved to knit the pink socks for dimpled little
feet! how she winced when her son seemed to shrink from her; how
jealous she was still of that goose Molly,--who had been another
man's wife for as many years as Herbert Maitland had been in his
grave. But Blair saw none of these things that might have told
him that his mother was a very woman. Instead, his
conventionality was insulted at every turn; his love of beauty
was outraged. As a result a wall was slowly built between the
mother and son, a wall whose foundations had been laid when the
little boy had pointed his finger at her and said "uggy."

Mrs. Maitland was, of course, perfectly unconscious of her son's
hot misery; she was so happy at having him at home again that she
could not see that he was unhappy at being at home. She was
pathetically eager to please him. Her theory--if in her absorbed
life she could be said to have a theory--was that Blair should
have everything he wanted, so that he should the sooner be a man.
Money, she thought, would give him everything. She herself wanted
nothing money could give, except food and shelter; the only use
she had for money was to make more money; but she realized that
other people, especially young men, like the things it would buy.
Twice during that particular vacation, for no cause except to
gratify herself, she gave her son a wickedly large check; and
once, when Nannie told her that he wanted to pay for some
painting lessons, though she demurred just for a moment, she paid
the bill so that his own spending-money should not be diminished.

"What on earth does a man who is going to run an Iron Works want
with painting lessons?" she said to the entreating sister. But