ed him, and the gray old pastor of the church once
presided over by his father invited him to preach. He did so,
delivering his one sermon; but the delivery and the sermon were not of
a character that would inspire the congregation to empty the pulpit for
him, so the young preacher went home to wait, as Quinbey had waited,
for that pulpit to become vacant by death.

But he deplored the coldness of the house, and ordered coal on credit
for the base-burner; also he deplored the hard labor of his mother,
assured her that the necessity for it would soon end, but did nothing
himself toward this end; for, in truth, there was nothing he could do
but preach; and the gray old pastor seemed as tenacious of life as his
own father had been.

The mother was content, however, except for the always present, but
lessening, hope that her husband would return, and happy in the company
of her educated and accomplished son. And so, as bravely as ever, she
carried her burden through the streets, not only on Saturdays now, but
on Wednesdays, because, with another mouth to feed, she must of needs
wash more clothes.

And so the time went on, the Reverend Samuel Simpson growing seedier of
raiment and fatter of body, enduring patiently the sneers and sarcasms
of the indignant men of the village, while the mother's face grew
thinner, her body weaker, and her once blond hair so gray that she
looked ten years beyond her age. Then, four years after the son's
return, the breaking point came. With the front of her garments
dripping wet, she stood erect from her tub, looked at him where he sat
near the kitchen fire--the base-burner had long been cold--and said:

"Sammy, you must go to work. I can do no more. It is killing me."

"But what can I do, mother dear?" he answered kindly.

"I do not know," she said weariedly. "Something, maybe, that will help.
You are educated. You might write for the Boston papers, or the
magazines. Or you might find a pulpit somewhere else, and send me some
money once in a while."

"What, and leave you alone, mother? Not for the world would I desert
you. You are my mother, and have cared for me. But I have thought of
writing. I have been thinking for years of a literary career, only I
have not been able to decide which branch of literature I am best
fitted for."

"Well, Sammy," said the mother, as she bent over her tub, "I cannot
decide for you; but something must be done."

"And I will do it, mother," he shouted