Marjorie Benton looked at this handsome boy who was her own son, her flesh and blood. A surge of deep feeling came over her. Why, he was no longer a boy! He was a man—her son, one to comfort and cherish her. A thought which brought the quick blood to her face, so foreign was it to her usual restraint and the way she had come to bear her burdens silently overwhelmed her. Why not tell Howard? Why not ask his aid? She walked slowly over to the youth who was whistling as he patted the smooth shining hood of his new toy as though it were a living feeling thing, and placed her hand on his arm. Howard looked up quickly, but something he saw in his mother’s eyes brought a remonstrance to his lips. “Why, mother—dear—what is it?” he asked. “You look so queer!” The mother’s smile was wan. “I feel queer, dear,” she admitted. “The whole world looks queer. Howard, my son, I must tell you something. Your father and I have quarreled and I’m afraid _seriously_.” “So that is what was wrong with him,” Howard whistled again, but there was relief in his voice as he added, carelessly: “Well, why should he take it out on me—I can’t help it if you two can’t hit it off together—can I?” “Oh, Howard!” Marjorie shuddered. “How can you——” “Now, don’t you go and misunderstand me, mater—but what’s the use of being so serious? You’ve quarreled many times before, and it always blows over.” “But this is different. Whenever we’ve quarreled before, it has always been over you or Elinor—or places to go, or people to entertain—but this time it is a—woman!” Shame brought the last word out barely above a whisper. “A woman!—Not Dad?” Howard laughed. “Who would have believed it? How did you catch him?” “Howard,” Marjorie struggled with her choking sobs, “_please_ try to understand—can’t you see—my heart is breaking. I haven’t anyone in the world to turn to but you. You’re a man, dear, I—I thought perhaps you can help me or advise me?” Howard’s face became grave. “I’m sorry, mother,” he begged, “forgive me. Of course, I’ll help you all I can. Who is this woman?” “I’d rather not tell you her name.” “Is she young and pretty?” “She’s only four years younger than I,” was the sad answer, “but you would take her for a girl—and she is very pretty.” Howard seemed to be considering the matter seriously. When he spoke it was with carefully chosen words. “Mater, do you mind if I hand it to you straight from the shoulder?” he asked bluntly. “Say whatever you wish,” she replied. “Well then,” he said, and he could not help but see his mother’s wince of pain as her own son went on, “this is all your own fault. You’ve never been willing to go anywhere with Dad; you won’t keep yourself young for him. Why, he’s just like a boy! Whenever we go out together, everyone thinks he’s my brother. If he can’t find the companionship he needs in his own home, he is bound to seek it on the outside.”