"Well, she isn't fat, anyway. She weighs less than she ever did." Her serious eyes dwelt on him under the green sunshade she held, and it is possible that she wondered vaguely what it was about John Henry that had made her love him unsought ever since she could remember. He was certainly not handsome--though he was less stout and much better looking than he used to be: he was not particularly clever, even if he was successful with the work Cyrus had given him. She was under no delusion concerning him (being a remarkably clear-sighted young person), yet she knew that taking him just as he was, large, slow, kind, good, he aroused in her a tenderness that was almost ridiculous. She had waited patiently seven years for him to discover that he cared for her--a fact which had been perfectly evident to her long before his duller wit had perceived it. "Do you want to be there to welcome Jinny?" he asked. "I'd thought I'd go up about five, so I could get a glimpse of the children before they are put to bed." "Then I'll meet you there and bring you home. I wouldn't take anything for meeting you, Susan. There's something about you that always cheers me." She met his eyes frankly. "Well, I'm glad of that," she replied in her confident way, and held out her hand through the handle of the basket. An instant later, when she passed on into Bolingbroke Street, there was a smile on her face which made it almost pretty. The front door was open, and as she entered the house her mother came groping toward her out of the close-smelling dusk of the hall. "I thought you'd never get back, Susan. I've had such a funny feeling." "What kind of feeling, mother? It must be just nervousness. Here are some beautiful grapes I've brought you." "I wish you wouldn't leave me alone. I don't like to be left alone." "Well, I don't leave you any more than I'm obliged to, but if I stay shut up here I feel as if I'd smother. I've asked Miss Willy to come and sit with you this evening while I run up to welcome Virginia." "Is she coming back? Nobody told me. Nobody tells me anything." "But I did tell you. Why, we've been talking about it for weeks. You must have forgotten." "I shouldn't have forgotten it. I'm sure I shouldn't have forgotten it if you had told me. But you keep everything from me. You are just like your father. You and James are both just like your father." Her voice had grown peevish, and an expression of fury distorted her usually passive features. "Why, mother, what in the world is the matter?" asked Susan, startled by her manner. "Come upstairs and lie down. I don't believe you are well. You didn't eat a morsel of breakfast, so I'm going to fix you a nice little lunch. I got you a beautiful sweetbread from Mr. Dewlap." Putting her arm about her, she led her up the long flight of steps to her room, where Mrs. Treadwell, pacified by the attention, began immediately to doze on the chintz-covered couch by the window.