school, and very headstrong,
he went to Boston, and from there he went to jail for cheating a bank,
and in jail he died. It was best for him and for me. I took him back to
lie beside his brother and sister, though some said it was a shame. But
what can a mother do? Her children are hers no matter if they turn out
wrong."

"And you lived through it all, mother?" said the listener with his face
working.

"Once I thought different, but now I know it was for the best," she
answered calmly, and chiefly for his benefit. "I had my days and years
even, when I thought some other woman had taken Martha Willis' place, a
poor miserable creature, more like the dead than the live. But I often
thought, since my own self came back, how lucky it was Lucy had her
mother to close her eyes, and the same for poor Henry. And Oliver, he
was pretty miserable dying in jail, but I never forgot what he said to
me. 'Mother,' he said, 'it's like dying at home to have you with me
here.' He was very proud, and it cut him that the cleverest of the
family should die in jail. And he said, 'you'll put me beside the
others, and take care of the grave, and not be ashamed of me, mother.'
It was the money he left me, that kept this house and me ever since. Now
just think of the way he'd have died if I had not been about to see to
him. And I suppose the two tramps'll come marching in some day to die,
or to be buried, and they'll be lucky to find me living. But anyway I've
arranged it with the minister to see to them, and give them a place with
their own, if I'm not here to look after them."

"And you lived through it all!" repeated Horace in wonder.

Her story gave him hope. He must put off thinking until grief had
loosened its grip on his nerves, and the old self had come uppermost. He
was determined that the old self should return, as Martha had proved it
could return. He enjoyed its presence at that very moment, though with a
dread of its impending departure. The old woman readily accepted him as
a boarder for a few days or longer, and treated him like a son. He slept
that night in a bed, the bed of Oliver and Henry,--their portraits
hanging over the bureau--and slept as deeply as a wearied child. A
blessed sleep was followed by a bitter waking. Something gripped him the
moment he rose and looked out at the summer sun; a cruel hand seized his
breast, and weighted it with vague pain. Deep sighs shook him, and the
loom of Penelope began its dreadful weav