LITMIR.BIZ

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is selfish of me to take it," and so he sat trying to fashion his parting note into a tone of cheerfulness.

      "My dear mother," he wrote, "this will come to you when I have set off on a four years' voyage round the world. Father has convinced me that it's time for me to be doing something for myself; and I couldn't get a school to keep--and, after all, education is got other ways than at college. It's hard to go, because I love home, and hard because you will miss me-- though no one else will. But father may rely upon it, I will not be a burden on him another day. Sink or swim, I shall _never_ come back till I have enough to do for myself, and you too. So good bye, dear mother. I know you will always pray for me, and wherever I am I shall try to do just as I think you would want me to do. I know your prayers will follow me, and I shall always be your affectionate son.

      "P.S.--The boys may have those chestnuts and walnuts in my room--and in my drawer there is a bit of ribbon with a locket on it I was going to give cousin Diana. Perhaps she won't care for it, though; but if she does, she is welcome to it--it may put her in mind of old times."'

      And this is all he said, with bitterness in his heart, as he leaned on the window and looked out at the great yellow moon that was shining so bright as to show the golden hues of the overhanging elm boughs and the scarlet of an adjoining maple.

      A light ripple of laughter came up from below, and a chestnut thrown up struck him on the hand, and he saw Diana and Bill step from out the shadowy porch.

      "There's a chestnut for you, Mr. Owl," she called, gaily, "if you _will_ stay moping up there! Come, now, it's a splendid evening; _won't_ you come?"

      "No, thank you. I sha'n't be missed," was the reply.

      "That's true enough; the loss is your own. Good bye, Mr. Philosopher."

      "Good bye, Diana."

      Something in the tone struck strangely through her heart. It was the voice of what Diana never had felt yet--deep suffering--and she gave a little shiver.

      "What an _awfully_ solemn voice James has sometimes," she said; and then added, with a laugh, "it would make his fortune as a Methodist minister."

      The sound of the light laugh and little snatches and echoes of gay talk came back like heartless elves to mock Jim's sorrow.

      "So much for _her_," he said, and turned to go and look for his mother.

      --

Chapter V.

       Mother and Son

       Table of Contents

      He knew where he should find her. There was a little, low work-room adjoining the kitchen that was his mother's sanctum. There stood her work-basket--there were always piles and piles of work, begun or finished; and there also her few books at hand, to be glanced into in rare snatches of leisure in her busy life.

      The old times New England house mother was not a mere unreflective drudge of domestic toil. She was a reader and a thinker, keenly appreciative in intellectual regions. The literature of that day in New England was sparse; but whatever there was, whether in this country or in England, that was noteworthy, was matter of keen interest, and Mrs. Pitkin's small library was very dear to her. No nun in a convent under vows of abstinence ever practiced more rigorous self-denial than she did in the restraints and government of intellectual tastes and desires. Her son was dear to her as the fulfillment and expression of her unsatisfied craving for knowledge, the possessor of those fair fields of thought which duty forbade her to explore.

      James stood and looked in at the window, and saw her sorting and arranging the family mending, busy over piles of stockings and shirts, while on the table beside her lay her open Bible, and she was singing to herself, in a low, sweet undertone, one of the favorite minor-keyed melodies of those days:

      "O God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast And our eternal home!"

      An indescribable feeling, blended of pity and reverence, swelled in his heart as he looked at her and marked the whitening hair, the thin worn little hands so busy with their love work, and thought of all the bearing and forbearing, the waiting, the watching, the long-suffering that had made up her life for so many years. The very look of exquisite calm and resolved strength in her patient eyes and in the gentle lines of her face had something that seemed to him sad and awful--as the purely spiritual always looks to the more animal nature. With his blood bounding and tingling in his veins, his strong arms pulsating with life, and his heart full of a man's vigor and resolve, his mother's life seemed to him to be one of weariness and drudgery, of constant, unceasing self-abnegation. Calm he knew she was, always sustained, never faltering; but her victory was one which, like the spiritual sweetness in the face of the dying, had something of sadness for the living heart. He opened the door and came in, sat down by her on the floor, and laid his head in her lap.

      "Mother, you never rest; you never stop working."

      "Oh, no!" she said gaily, "I'm just going to stop now. I had only a few last things I wanted to get done."

      "Mother, I can't bear to think of you; your life is too hard. We all have our amusements, our rests, our changes; your work is never done; you are worn out, and get no time to read, no time for anything but drudgery."

      "Don't say drudgery, my boy--work done for those we love _never_ is drudgery. I'm so happy to have you all around me I never feel it."

      "But, mother, you are not strong, and I don't see how you can hold out to do all you do."

      "Well," she said simply, "when my strength is all gone I ask God for more, and he always gives it. 'They that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength.'" And her hand involuntarily fell on the open Bible.

      "Yes, I know it," he said, following her hand with his eyes--while "Mother," he said, "I want you to give me your Bible and take mine. I think yours would do me more good."

      There was a little bright flush and a pleased smile on his mother's face--

      "Certainly, my boy, I will."

      "I see you have marked your favorite places," he added. "It will seem like hearing you speak to read them."

      "With all my heart," she added, taking up the Bible and kissing his forehead as she put it into his hands.

      There was a struggle in his heart how to say farewell without saying it-- without letting her know that he was going to leave her. He clasped her in his arms and kissed her again and again.

      "Mother," he said, "if I ever get into heaven it will be through you."

      "Don't say that, my son--it must be through a better Friend than I am-- who loves you more than I do. I have not died for you--He did."

      "Oh, that I knew where I might find him, then. You I can see--Him I cannot."

      His mother looked at him with a face full of radiance, pity, and hope.

      "I feel sure you _will_" she said. "You are consecrated," she added, in a low voice, laying her hand on his head.

      "Amen," said James, in a reverential tone. He felt that she was at that moment--as she often was--silently speaking to One invisible of and for him, and the sense of it stole over him like a benediction. There was a pause of tender silence for many minutes.

      "Well, I must not keep you up any longer, mother dear--it's time you were resting. Good-night." And with a long embrace and kiss they separated. He had yet fifteen miles to walk to reach the midnight stage that was to convey him to Salem.

      As he was starting from the house with his bundle in his hand, the sound of a gay laugh came through the distant shrubbery. It was Diana and Bill returning from the husking. Hastily he concealed himself behind a clump of old lilac bushes till they emerged into the moonlight and passed into the house. Diana was in one of those paroxysms of young girl frolic which are the effervescence of young, healthy blood, as natural as the gyrations

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