from my sort of people.

The time came at last when I had to go up to my room and get my
stuff--and I knew what would happen then. Mother would come, too, and
we'd say our real good-bye there. That's only fair to her--and to me,
too, for I wouldn't miss it, even though it's the real crisis in every
going away. But--that night--well....

Of course, you know, the room's full of my junk--things I've had since
I was a little chap, all the way up, to things I had in my Freshman
year and thought were awfully sporty--and then discarded and brought
home to keep in remembrance of my foolish youth. I'm pretty fond of
that old room. I don't need to explain that much, probably. Any fellow
would know.

I took one look around before Mother came--I thought one would be
about all that would be good for me. The fire was burning rather
brightly on the hearth, but I'd put out the other lights.... Then
Mother came in.

If I hadn't caught a glimpse of her hands I shouldn't have known, but
I did happen to see them as she came in. They were clinched tight at
her sides, just the way I've often clinched mine before I went into a
game on which a good deal depended. But the next minute her arms were
round my neck in the old way, and she was holding me so tight I could
hardly breathe--and I don't believe she could breathe much, either,
for I was giving her back every bit of that, with some to spare. I
have an idea she was saying, inside, "I won't--I _won't"_--just
the same way I was. And she didn't--and I didn't--though _not to_
certainly pulled harder than anything I ever _didn't_ do in my