they watched the shadows gather--the hills and the city and the river
dissolve: the whole broad world turn to points of light, twinkling,
flashing, darting, in the black, voiceless gulf. Nor would she fail to
watch the night come, whether in gentle weather or whipping rain: but
there would sit, the boy in her arms, held close to her breast, her
hand straying restlessly over his small body, intimately caressing it.

The falling shadows; the river, flowing unfeelingly; the lights,
wandering without rest, aimless, forever astray in the dark: these were
a spell upon her.

"They go to the sea!" she whispered, once.

"The ships, mother?"

She put his head in the hollow of her shoulder, where her cheek might
touch his hair: all the time staring out at the lights on the river.

"All the ships, all the lights on the river," she said, hoarsely, "go
out there."

"Why?"

"The river takes them."

He was made uneasy: being conscious of the deeper meaning--acutely
aware of some strange dread stirring in her heart.

"Maybe," he protested, "they're glad to go away."

She shook her head. "One night," she said, leaning towards the window,
seeming now to forget the boy, "I seen the sea. All the lights on the
river go different ways--when they get out there. It is a dark and
lonesome place--big and dark and lonesome."

"Then," said he, quickly, "you would not like to be there."

"No," she answered. "I do not like the sky," she continued; "it is so
big and empty. I do not like the sea; it is so big and dark. And
black winds are always blowing there; and the lights go different ways.
The lights," she muttered, "go different ways! I am afraid of the
dark. And, oh!" she moaned, suddenly crushing him to her breast,
rocking him, in an agony of tenderness, "I am afraid of something else.
Oh, I am afraid!"

"Of what?" he gasped.

"To be alone!" she sobbed.

He released himself from her arms--sat back on her knee: quivering from
head to foot, his hands clenched, his lips writhing. "Don't, mother!"
he cried. "Don't cry. We will not go to the sea. We _will_ not!"

"We must," she whispered.

"Oh, why?"

She kissed him: her hand slipped under his knees; and she drew him
close again--and there held him until he lay quiet in her arms.

"We are like the lights on the river," she said. "The river will take
us to a place where the lights go different ways."

"We will not go!"

"The river will take us."

The boy was