Their little
savings were gone; the breadwinner, tempting fate once too often,
had received what was to her worse than a mortal wound, for the
means of livelihood had been taken from her.
"Could I have but died," she repeated to herself. "Oh, could I
have but died!"
Raymond laid his head against the coverlet and sobbed. He needed
no words to tell him what was in her mind; that her illness had
used up the little money there was to spare; that she, so long the
support of both, was now a helpless burden on his hands. Pity for
her outweighed every other consideration. His own loss seemed but
little in comparison to hers. It was the concluding tragedy of
those five tragic years. The battle, through no fault of theirs,
had gone against them. The dream of a professional career was
over.
His mother grew better. The doctor ceased his visits. She was able
to get on her feet again. She took over their pinched
housekeeping. But her step was heavy; the gaunt, grim straight-
backed woman, with her thin grey hair and set mouth, was no more
than a spectre of her former self. The doctor was right. There was
nothing before her but lifelong invalidism.
Raymond found work; a place in the auditing department of a
railroad, with a salary to begin with of sixty dollars a month; in
ten years he might hope to get a hundred. But he was one of those
whose back bent easily to misfortune. Heaven knew, he had been
schooled long enough to take its blows with fortitude.
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