fleeing guest.

"Willy!" she cried.

Her tall boy was bending over her--once more the high, fair head, the
smooth arch of the neck, which she could barely reach to put her arms about
it.

"Mother!" The word in his grave man's voice thrilled her as once had the
touch of his baby hands.

"I am afraid to look at you, my son. How is it with you?"

"I am all right, mother. How are things here?"

"Oh, don't speak of us! Did you get my letter?"

"This morning."

"And you read it, Willy?"

"Of course."

There was a silence. Mrs. Thorne clasped her son's arm and leaned her head
against it.

"I am sorry you worried so, mother."

"What does it matter about me?"