Between ten and eleven, when he had been sitting before his fire for about an hour, the door opened softly and Mrs. Ralston entered the room. She did not speak, but as John rose to meet her she smiled quietly and made him sit down again. Then she kneeled before the hearth and began to arrange the fire, an operation which she had always liked, and in which she displayed a singular talent. Moreover, at more than one critical moment in her life, she had found it a very good resource in embarrassment. A woman on her knees, making up a fire, has a distinct advantage. She may take as long as she pleases about it, for any amount of worrying about the position of a particular log is admissible. She may change colour twenty times in a minute, and the heat of the flame as well as the effort she makes in moving the wood will account satisfactorily for her blushes or her pallor. She may interrupt herself in speaking, and make effective pauses, which will be attributed to the concentration of her thoughts upon the occupation of her hands. If a man comes too near, she may tell him sharply to keep away, either saying that she can manage what she is doing far better if he leaves her alone, or alleging that the proximity of a second person will keep the air from the chimney and make it smoke. Or if the gods be favourable and she willing, she may at any moment make him kneel beside her and help her to lift a particularly heavy log. And when two young people are kneeling side by side before a pile of roaring logs in winter, the flames have a strange bright magic of their own; and sometimes love that has smouldered long blazes up suddenly and takes the two hearts with it--out of sheer sympathy for the burning oak and hickory and pine. But Mrs. Ralston really enjoyed making up a fire, and she went to the hearth quite naturally and without reflecting that after what had occurred she felt a little timid in her son’s presence. He obeyed her and resumed his seat, and sat leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees and his hands hanging down idly, while he watched his mother’s skilful hands at work. “Jack dear--” she paused in her occupation, having the tongs in one hand and a little piece of kindling-wood in the other, but did not turn round--“Jack, I can’t make up to you for what I did last night, can I?” She was motionless for a moment, listening for his reply. It came quietly enough after a second or two. “No, mother, you can’t. But I don’t want to remember it, any more than you do.” Mrs. Ralston did not move for an instant after he had spoken. Then she occupied herself with the fire again. “You’re quite right,” she said presently. “You wouldn’t be my son, if you said anything else. If I were a man, one of us would be dead by this time.” She spoke rather intensely, so to say, but she used her hands as gently as ever in what she was doing. John said nothing.