She drew Helen's head down on her shoulder and sat beside her on the bed.
"Sweetheart, you mustn't fret," she soothed, in motherly fashion.
"Don't you worry, dear.

He's all right.

It isn't your fault, dear.

They wouldn't come on a night like this." But Helen drew away and went to the window, flattening her arm against the pane, her forehead pressed against her arm.

She had let him go; she had let him go alone.