LITMIR.BIZ

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taken a good deal of interest in him, and invited him to her house, where he met other artists. He was beginning to grow ambitious.

      One morning the postman came just as he was washing in the scullery. Suddenly he heard a wild noise from his mother. Rushing into the kitchen, he found her standing on the hearthrug wildly waving a letter and crying “Hurrah!” as if she had gone mad. He was shocked and frightened.

      “Why, mother!” he exclaimed.

      She flew to him, flung her arms round him for a moment, then waved the letter, crying:

      “Hurrah, my boy! I knew we should do it!”

      He was afraid of her—the small, severe woman with graying hair suddenly bursting out in such frenzy. The postman came running back, afraid something had happened. They saw his tipped cap over the short curtains. Mrs. Morel rushed to the door.

      “His picture's got first prize, Fred,” she cried, “and is sold for twenty guineas.”

      “My word, that's something like!” said the young postman, whom they had known all his life.

      “And Major Moreton has bought it!” she cried.

      “It looks like meanin' something, that does, Mrs. Morel,” said the postman, his blue eyes bright. He was glad to have brought such a lucky letter. Mrs. Morel went indoors and sat down, trembling. Paul was afraid lest she might have misread the letter, and might be disappointed after all. He scrutinised it once, twice. Yes, he became convinced it was true. Then he sat down, his heart beating with joy.

      “Mother!” he exclaimed.

      “Didn't I SAY we should do it!” she said, pretending she was not crying.

      He took the kettle off the fire and mashed the tea.

      “You didn't think, mother—” he began tentatively.

      “No, my son—not so much—but I expected a good deal.”

      “But not so much,” he said.

      “No—no—but I knew we should do it.”

      And then she recovered her composure, apparently at least. He sat with his shirt turned back, showing his young throat almost like a girl's, and the towel in his hand, his hair sticking up wet.

      “Twenty guineas, mother! That's just what you wanted to buy Arthur out. Now you needn't borrow any. It'll just do.”

      “Indeed, I shan't take it all,” she said.

      “But why?”

      “Because I shan't.”

      “Well—you have twelve pounds, I'll have nine.”

      They cavilled about sharing the twenty guineas. She wanted to take only the five pounds she needed. He would not hear of it. So they got over the stress of emotion by quarrelling.

      Morel came home at night from the pit, saying:

      “They tell me Paul's got first prize for his picture, and sold it to Lord Henry Bentley for fifty pound.”

      “Oh, what stories people do tell!” she cried.

      “Ha!” he answered. “I said I wor sure it wor a lie. But they said tha'd told Fred Hodgkisson.”

      “As if I would tell him such stuff!”

      “Ha!” assented the miner.

      But he was disappointed nevertheless.

      “It's true he has got the first prize,” said Mrs. Morel.

      The miner sat heavily in his chair.

      “Has he, beguy!” he exclaimed.

      He stared across the room fixedly.

      “But as for fifty pounds—such nonsense!” She was silent awhile. “Major Moreton bought it for twenty guineas, that's true.”

      “Twenty guineas! Tha niver says!” exclaimed Morel.

      “Yes, and it was worth it.”

      “Ay!” he said. “I don't misdoubt it. But twenty guineas for a bit of a paintin' as he knocked off in an hour or two!”

      He was silent with conceit of his son. Mrs. Morel sniffed, as if it were nothing.

      “And when does he handle th' money?” asked the collier.

      “That I couldn't tell you. When the picture is sent home, I suppose.”

      There was silence. Morel stared at the sugar-basin instead of eating his dinner. His black arm, with the hand all gnarled with work lay on the table. His wife pretended not to see him rub the back of his hand across his eyes, nor the smear in the coal-dust on his black face.

      “Yes, an' that other lad 'ud 'a done as much if they hadna ha' killed 'im,” he said quietly.

      The thought of William went through Mrs. Morel like a cold blade. It left her feeling she was tired, and wanted rest.

      Paul was invited to dinner at Mr. Jordan's. Afterwards he said:

      “Mother, I want an evening suit.”

      “Yes, I was afraid you would,” she said. She was glad. There was a moment or two of silence. “There's that one of William's,” she continued, “that I know cost four pounds ten and which he'd only worn three times.”

      “Should you like me to wear it, mother?” he asked.

      “Yes. I think it would fit you—at least the coat. The trousers would want shortening.”

      He went upstairs and put on the coat and vest. Coming down, he looked strange in a flannel collar and a flannel shirt-front, with an evening coat and vest. It was rather large.

      “The tailor can make it right,” she said, smoothing her hand over his shoulder. “It's beautiful stuff. I never could find in my heart to let your father wear the trousers, and very glad I am now.”

      And as she smoothed her hand over the silk collar she thought of her eldest son. But this son was living enough inside the clothes. She passed her hand down his back to feel him. He was alive and hers. The other was dead.

      He went out to dinner several times in his evening suit that had been William's. Each time his mother's heart was firm with pride and joy. He was started now. The studs she and the children had bought for William were in his shirt-front; he wore one of William's dress shirts. But he had an elegant figure. His face was rough, but warm-looking and rather pleasing. He did not look particularly a gentleman, but she thought he looked quite a man.

      He told her everything that took place, everything that was said. It was as if she had been there. And he was dying to introduce her to these new friends who had dinner at seven-thirty in the evening.

      “Go along with you!” she said. “What do they want to know me for?”

      “They do!” he cried indignantly. “If they want to know me—and they say they do—then they want to know you, because you are quite as clever as I am.”

      “Go along with you, child!” she laughed.

      But she began to spare her hands. They, too, were work-gnarled now. The skin was shiny with so much hot water, the knuckles rather swollen. But she began to be careful to keep them out of soda. She regretted what they had been—so small and exquisite. And when Annie insisted on her having more stylish blouses to suit her age, she submitted. She even went so far as to allow a black velvet bow to be placed on her hair. Then she sniffed in her sarcastic manner, and was sure she looked a sight. But she looked a lady, Paul declared, as much as Mrs. Major Moreton, and far, far nicer. The family was coming on. Only Morel remained unchanged, or rather, lapsed slowly.

      Paul and his mother now had long discussions about life. Religion was fading into the background. He had shovelled away all the beliefs that would hamper him, had cleared the ground, and come more or less to the bedrock of belief that

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