hide's like a buffalo's or I'd see that ye want 'im t'
yerself. I'm off t' bed!"

We sat in silence gazing into the peat fire. Memory led me back down the
road to yesterday. She was out in the future and wandering in an unknown
continent with only hope to guide her. Yet we must get together, and
that quickly.

"Minutes are like fine gold now," she said, "an' my tongue seems glued,
but I jist must spake."

"We have plenty of time, mother."

"Plenty!" she exclaimed. "Every clang of th' town clock is a knife
cuttin' th' cords--wan afther another--that bind me t' ye."

"I want to know about your hope, your outlook, your religion," I said.

"Th' biggest hope I've ever had was t' bear a chile that would love
everybody as yer father loved me!"

"A sort of John-three-sixteen in miniature."

"Aye."

"The aim is high enough to begin with!"

"Not too high!"

"And your religion?"

"All in all, it's bein' kind an' lovin' kindness. _That_ takes in God
an' maan an' Pogue's entry an' th' world."

The town clock struck twelve. Each clang "a knife cutting a cord" and
each heavier and sharper than the last. Each one vibrating, tingling,
jarring along every nerve, sinew and muscle. A feeling of numbness crept
over me.

"That's the end of life for me," she said slowly. There was a pause,
longer and more intense than all the others.

"Maybe ye'll get rich an' forget."

"Yes, I shall be rich. I shall be a millionaire--a millionaire of love,
but no one shall ever take your place, dear!"

My overcoat served as a pillow. An old quilt made a pallet on the hard
floor. I found myself being pressed gently down from the low creepie to
the floor. I pretended to sleep. Her hot tears fell on my face. Her dear
toil-worn fingers were run gently through my hair. She was on her knees
by my side. The tender mysticism of her youth came back and expressed
itself in prayer. It was interspersed with tears and "Ave Maria!"

When the first streak of dawn penetrated the old window we had our last
cup of tea together and later, when I held her in a long, lingering
embrace, there were no tears--we had shed them all in the silence of
the last vigil. When I was ready to go, she stood with her arm on the
old yellow mantel-shelf. She was rigid and pale as death, but around her
eyes and her mouth there played a smile. There was a look ineffable of
maternal love.

"We shall meet again, mother," I said.

"Aye, dearie, I know rightly we'll meet, bu