“Mother—­maybe I’m starved,” he said, smiling at her.

That practical speech released the strain and inspired his mother to action.  She began to bustle round the kitchen, talking all the while.  Lane watched her and listened, and spoke occasionally.  Once he asked about his sister Lorna, but his mother either did not hear or chose not to reply.  All she said was music to his ears, yet not quite what his heart longed for.  He began to distrust this strange longing.  There was something wrong with his mind.  His faculties seemed too sensitive.  Every word his mother uttered was news, surprising, unusual, as if it emanated from a home-world that had changed.  And presently she dropped into complaint at the hard times and the cost of everything.

“Mother,” he interrupted, “I didn’t blow my money.  I’ve saved nearly a year’s pay.  It’s yours.”

“But, Daren, you’ll need money,” she protested.

“Not much.  And maybe—­I’ll be strong enough to go to work—­presently,” he said, hopefully.  “Do you think Manton will take me back—­half days at first?”

“I have my doubts, Daren,” she replied, soberly.  “Hattie Wilson has your old job.  And I hear they’re pleased with her.  Few of the boys got their places back.”

“Hattie Wilson!” exclaimed Lane.  “Why, she was a kid in the eighth grade when I left home.”

“Yes, my son.  But that was nearly three years ago.  And the children have sprung up like weeds.  Wild weeds!”

“Well!  That tousle-headed Wilson kid!” mused Lane.  An uneasy conviction of having been forgotten dawned upon Lane.  He remembered Blair Maynard’s bitter prophecy, which he had been unable to accept.

“Anyway, Daren, are you able to work?” asked his mother.

“Sure,” he replied, lying cheerfully, with a smile on his face.  “Not hard work, just yet, but I can do something.”

His mother did not share his enthusiasm.  She went on preparing the supper.

“How do you manage to get along?” inquired Lane.

“Lord only knows,” she replied, sombrely.  “It has been very hard.  When you left home I had only the interest on your father’s life insurance.  I sold the farm—­”

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Lane, with a rush of boyhood memories.

“I had to,” she went on.  “I made that money help out for a long time.  Then I—­I mortgaged this place....  Things cost so terribly.  And Lorna had to have so much more....  But she’s just left school and gone to work.  That helps.”

“Lorna left school!” ejaculated Lane, incredulously.  “Why, mother, she was only a child.  Thirteen years old when I left!  She’ll miss her education.  I’ll send her back.”

“Well, son, I doubt if you can make Lorna do anything she doesn’t want to do,” returned his mother.  “She wanted to quit school—­to earn money.  Whatever she was when you left home she’s grown up now.  You’ll not know her.”

“Know Lorna!  Why, mother dear, I carried Lorna’s picture all through the war.”