She was told by the smiling little maid to go up into the Workshop. This room was a pitiful attempt to lure Brace to work at home; in his absence Helen sat there and scribbled. She wrote feeble little verses with a suggestion of the real thing in them. Sometimes they got published because the suggestion caught the attention of a sympathetic publisher, and these small recognitions kept alive a spark that was all but extinguished when Helen Northrup chose, as women of her time did, a profession or--the woman's legitimate sphere! There had been no regret in Helen's soul for whatever part she played in her own life--her son was her recompense for any disappointment she might have met, and he was, she devoutly believed, her interpreter. She loved to think in her quiet hours that her longings and aspirations had found expression in her child; she had sought, always, to consider his interests wisely--unselfishly, of course--and leave him as free to live his own life as though she were not the lonely, disillusioned woman that she was. She had never known how early Brace had understood the conditions in his home--mothers and fathers rarely do. Only once during his boyhood had Brace ventured upon the subject over which he spent many confused and silent hours. When he was fourteen he remarked, in that strained voice that he believed hid any emotion: "I say, Mother, a lot of fellows at our school have fathers and mothers who live apart--most of the fellows side with their mothers!" These words nearly made Helen ill. She could make no reply. She looked dumbly at the boy facing her with a new and awful revealment. She understood that he wanted her to _know_, wanted to comfort her; and she knew, with terrifying certainty, that she could not deceive him--she was at his mercy! She was wise enough to say nothing. But after that she felt his suddenly acquired strength. It was shown in his tenderness, his cheerfulness, his companionship, and, thank God! in his silence. But while Helen gloried in her boy she still was loyal to the traditions of marriage, and her little world never got behind her screen. She had divorced her husband because he desired it--then she went on alone. When her husband died away from home, his body was brought to her. It had been his last request and she paid all respect to it with her boy close beside her. And then she forgot--really, in most cases--the things that she had been remembering. She erected over her dead husband, not a stone, but a living _unreality_. It answered the purpose for which it was designed; it made it possible for her to live rather a full life, be a comrade to her son--a friend indeed--and to share all his joys and many of his confidences, and to impress upon him, so she trusted, that he must not sacrifice anything for her.