ardest difficulty of
all. -- How can I go and leave you and papa without me?"

"How can you? My child, I can bear to do without you in this
world, if it is to be for your good or happiness. There is
only one thing, Winthrop, I cannot bear."

He was silent.

"I could bear anything -- it would make my life a garden of
roses -- if I were sure of having you with me in the next
world."

"Mamma -- you know I would --"

"I know you would, I believe, give your life to serve me, my
boy. But till you love God as well as that, -- you may be my
child, but you are not his."

He was silent still; and heaving a sigh, a weary one, that
came from very far down in her heart, she turned away again
and sat looking towards the fireplace. But not at it, nor at
anything else that mortal eyes could see. It was a look that
left the things around her, and passing present wants and
future contingencies, went beyond, to the issues, and to the
secret springs that move them. An earnest and painful look; a
look of patient care and meek reliance; so earnest, so intent,
so distant in its gaze, that told well it was a path the mind
often travelled and often in such wise, and with the self-same
burden. Winthrop watched the gentle grave face, so very grave
then in its gentleness, until he could not bear it; her cheek
was growing pale, and whether with cold or with thinking he
did not care to know.

He came forward and gently touched his cheek to the pale one.

"Mamma, do not look so for me!" he whispered.

She pulled him down beside her on the hearth, and nestled her
face on his shoulder and wrapped her arms round him. And they
strained him close, but he could not speak to her then.

"For whom should I look? or for what do I live? My boy! I
would die to know that you loved Christ; -- that my dear Master
was yours too!"

The gently-spoken words tied his tongue. He was mute; till she
had unloosed her arms from about him and sat with her face in
her hands. Then his head sought her shoulder.

"Mamma, I know you are right. I will do anything to please you
-- anything that I can," he said with a great force upon
himself.

"What _can_ you do, Winthrop?"

He did not answer again, and she looked up and looked into his
face.

"Can you take God for your God? and give your heart and your
life, -- all the knowledge you will ever get and all the power
it will ever give you, -- to be used for him?"

"For him, mamma? --"

"In doing his work --