Georgia tiptoed to the door of the living room. There was no sound. Father Hervey must have gone. She turned the knob and went in.
"Good evening, my child," said the priest, rising courteously and extending his hand. "I was resting a moment, hoping you might be home."
"Good evening, Father. Thank you so much."
"Your mother," he lowered his voice, "isn't as strong as her friends might hope, I'm afraid. She just had a faint spell, and she's in there now, lying down. It quite worried me, Georgia."
"Yes, sometimes I'm afraid she won't get better."
"She has told me she wished to resign from the advisory board of our summer school. That shows how she thinks she is. You know how much interest she always took in the work as long as she was able."
"It would be a great comfort to her if you would take her place."
"Yes. She is very anxious to keep it in the family, as it were," he explained, smiling.
"Let's see," asked Georgia slowly, "who's on that board?"
"Mrs. Conway," she repeated, picking up a newspaper and writing on the margin.
"Mrs. Keough, Mrs. Schweppe, Mrs. Cochrane."
Georgia wrote on the newspaper after each name. "And mama," she added. She footed the total. "Those five women aggregate more than two hundred and fifty years," she bitterly exclaimed. "They're an advisory board, because they can only advise about life. They're past living it. And I--am just thirty. No, Father, I won't go on the board--yet."
She was curiously resentful, as if she had received an insult. She walked quickly to the window and threw it open, looking out and turning her back to the priest until she might collect herself and control her strange agitation.
"Very well," he answered gently, "I only hoped that it might please your mother." He took his hat in his hand and stood up. "Before I go," he said, "I think I should tell you that I have had news from your husband." He took a letter from his pocket and held it out toward her.
"He's on a farm in Iowa," the priest said, "I managed it. He's been doing hard work--and is much better."
"Yes, he may raise himself up a little, and then just when people are beginning to hope for the hundredth time, he'll relapse and--wallow."
"Yes, I am afraid sometimes he is hopeless." The despondency was plain in his voice.