She had drawn a low chair close to the fire, and, having
extinguished all other lights, was sitting quietly looking into the
still glowing embers. Roberta, forgetting her quest, came close, and
flinging a cushion at her mother's knee dropped down there. This was a
frequent happening, and the most intimate hours the two spent together
were after this fashion.
There was no speech for a little, though Mrs. Gray's hand wandered
caressingly about her daughter's neck in a way Roberta dearly loved,
drawing the loosened dark locks away from the small ears, or twisting a
curly strand about her fingers. Suddenly the girl burst out:
"Mother, what are you to do when you find all your theories upset?"
"_All_ upset?" repeated Mrs. Gray, in her rich and quiet voice. "That
would be a calamity indeed. Surely there must be one or two of yours
remaining stable?"
"It seems not, just now. One disproved overturns another. They all hinge
on one another--at least mine do."
"Perhaps not as closely as you think. What is it, dear? Can you tell me
anything about it?"
"Not much, I'm afraid. Oh, it's nothing very real, I suppose--just a
sort of vague discomfort at feeling that certain ideals I thought were
as fixed as the stars in the heavens seem to be wobbling as if they
might shoot downward any minute, and--and leave only a trail of light
behind!"
The last words came on a note of rather shaky laughter.
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