she said nothing. Bill did not even nod to her. He fumbled with
his books, as though to keep them from slipping to the floor
when, quite obviously, they were not even inclined to leave the
chair. Rose let her eyes fall and then slide, under half-closed
lids, until they had Martin in her view. She looked at him
appealingly, but he was staring at a paper which he was not
reading. He had been in this chair for two hours, without a word,
pretending to be studying printed words which his mind refused to
register. Martin had done Bill's share of the chores, with
unbelief in his heart. He had never imagined such a thing. Who
would have thought it could happen--a son of his!

His wife broke the silence with:

"What happened, Billy? Were you sick?"

"No, mother, I wasn't sick."

Martin was still looking at his paper, which his fists gripped
tightly.

"Then you just couldn't get home sooner, could you? Something you
couldn't help kept you away, didn't it?"

Bill shook his head slowly. "No," he answered easily. "I could
have come home much sooner."

"Billy, dear, what DID happen?" She was beginning to feel
panicky; he was courting distress.