John Ralston was very like his mother, and she knew it and understood instinctively that words could be of no use. There was nothing to be done but to throw herself upon his mercy, as it were, and to trust that he would forgive an injury which nothing could repair. And John understood this, and did his best to meet her half way, for he loved her very much. But he could not help the expression on his face, not being good at masking nor at playing any part. She, womanly, could have done that better than he. She wished to act no comedy, however. The thing was real and true, and she was distressed beyond measure. She looked up at his face and saw what was in his mind, and she knew that for the present she could do nothing. Then she gently kissed the sleeve of his coat, and withdrew her hands from him. “You’re wet, Jack,” she said, trying to speak naturally. “Go to bed, and I’ll bring you something to eat and something hot to drink.” “No, mother--thank you. I don’t want anything. But I think I’ll go to bed. Good night.” “Let me bring you something--” “No, thank you. I’d rather not. It’s all right, mother. Don’t worry.” It was hard to say even that little, just then, but he did as well as he could. Then he kissed her on the forehead and opened the door for her. She bent her head low as she passed him, but she did not look up. Half an hour later, when John was about to put out his light, he heard the little clinking of glasses and silver on a tray outside his door. Then there was a knock. “I’ve brought you something to eat, Jack,” said his mother’s voice. “Just what I could find--” John turned as he was crossing the room--a gaunt figure in his loose, striped flannels--and hesitated a moment before he spoke. “Oh--thank you, very much,” he answered. “Would you kindly set it down? I’ll take it in presently. It’s very good of you, mother--thank you--good night again.” He heard her set down the tray, and the things rattled and clinked. “It’s here, when you want it,” said the voice.