A few minutes later, sobbing heavily, the elder woman lay in bed, across her forehead and eyes a wet-pack of towel for easement of the headache she and Saxon tacitly accepted as substitute for the brain-storm.
When a clatter of hoofs came down the street and stopped, Saxon was able to slip to the front door and wave her hand to Billy.

In the kitchen she found Tom waiting in sad anxiousness.
"It's all right," she said.

"Billy Roberts has come, and I've got to go.
You go in and sit beside her for a while, and maybe she'll go to sleep.
But don't rush her.

Let her have her own way.

If she'll let you take her hand, why do it.