She had risen. Slowly she went around behind the little high chair.
Leaning lithely over, she laid her cheek against that of her child, soft,
rounded arms pressing her close. And then she looked at Blake, eyes to
eyes.

"I don't like it, Tom," she said, very slowly.

"But," he protested, "it's a big honor--a great honor--an appointment
like this, from the President."

"Yes," she answered, thoughtfully. "It is a big honor. And I suppose that
I should be very, very happy--Of course, in a way, I am." Then, suddenly:
"But I'm not. I don't like it, Tom. I try to like it. I tell myself that
I ought to like it. And yet I can't. Happiness is more than honors; and
we are happy here--as happy as it is possible for two people" her eyes,
laden of the mother love, fell upon the child that was hers, "for three
people," she corrected, "to be. We have everything we need--everything we
ought to want. I'd rather have just peace, and quiet and contentment,
than all the honors there are."

"And yet--"

"I mustn't stand in the way of his advancement, you mean. I know that;
and I haven't.... You know he left it all to me; and I said, 'Go.' It
hurt, too, Tom.... I didn't want that he should go. I don't know why....
I--" she stopped. The child had finished her oatmeal. Lithely, the
mother, stooping, lifted her from the chair, held her close for a tiny
minute and then, kissing her, set her down upon the floor.

"Run along, dearie," she directed. "Tell Mawkins to get you dressed."