nder with the scrawny plants in the five red
pots on the window-shelf. On gray days, when our house and all the world
lay in the soggy shadow of the fog, she fretted sadly for their health;
and she kept feverish watch for a rift in the low, sad sky, and sighed
and wished for sunlight. It mystified me to perceive the wistful regard
she bestowed upon the stalks and leaves that thrived the illest--the
soft touches for the yellowing leaves, and, at last, the tear that fell,
when, withered beyond hope, they were plucked and cast away--and I asked
her why she loved the sick leaves so; and she answered that she knew but
would not tell me why. Many a time, too, at twilight, I surprised her
sitting downcast by the window, staring out--and far--not upon the rock
and sea of our harbour, but as though through the thickening shadows
into some other place.

"What you lookin' at, mum?" I asked her, once.

"A glory," she answered.

"Glory!" said I. "They's no glory out there. The night falls. 'Tis all
black an' cold on the hills. Sure, _I_ sees no glory."

"'Tis not a glory, but a shadow," she whispered, "for you!"

Nor was I now ever permitted to see her in disarray, but always, as it
seemed to me, fresh from my sister's clever hands, her hair laid smooth
and shining, her simple gown starched crisp and sweetly smelling of the
ironing board; and when I asked her why she was never but thus lovely,
she answered, with a smile, that surely it pleased her son to find her
always so: which, indeed, it did. I felt, hence, in some puzzled way,
that this display was a design upon me, but to what end I could not
tell. And there was an air of sad unquiet in the house: it occurred to
my childish fancy that my mother was like one bound alone upon a long
journey; and once, deep in the night, when I had long lain ill at ease
in the shadow of this fear, I crept to her door to listen, lest she be
already fled, and I heard her sigh and faintly complain; and then I went
back to bed, very sad that my mother should be ailing, but now sure that
she would not leave me.

Next morning my father leaned over our breakfast table and laid his
broad hand upon my mother's shoulder; whereupon she looked up smiling,
as ever she did when that big man caressed her.

"I'll be havin' the doctor for you," he said.

She gave him a swift glance of warning--then turned her wide eyes upon
me.

"Oh," said my father, "the lad knows you is sick. 'Tis no use tryin' t'
ke