d. But he wouldn't; an' now they'll be turned for him. Wise though
the man was, he set no store on the dark, hidden meaning of honey-bees
at times of death. Now the creatures be masterless, same as you an' me;
an' they'll knaw it; an' you'll see many an' many a-murmuring on his
graave 'fore the grass graws green theer; for they see more 'n what we
can."

She relapsed into motionless silence and, herself now wholly tearless,
watched the tears of Chris, who had sunk down on the floor between the
mother and son.

"Why for do _you_ cry an' wring your hands so hard?" she asked suddenly.
"You'm awnly a girl yet--young an' soft-cheeked wi' braave bonny eyes.
Theer'll be many a man's breast for you to comfort your head on. But me!
Think o' what's tearin' my auld heart to tatters--me, so bleared an'
ugly an' lonely. God knaws God's self couldn't bring no balm to
me--none, till I huddle under the airth arter un; but you--your wound
won't show by time the snaw comes again."

"You forget when you loved a man first if you says such a thing as
that."

"Theer's no eternal, lasting fashion o' love but a mother's to her awn
male childer," croaked the other. "Sweethearts' love is a thing o' the
blood--a trick o' Nature to tickle us poor human things into breeding
'gainst our better wisdom; but what a mother feels doan't hang on no
such broken reed. It's deeper down; it's hell an' heaven both to wance;
it's life; an' to lose it is death. See! Essterday I'd 'a' fought an'
screamed an' took on like a gude un to be fetched away to the Union; but
come they put him in the ground, I'll go so quiet as a lamb."

Another silence followed; then the aged widow pursued her theme, at
first in the same dreary, cracked monotone, then deepening to passion.

"I tell you a gude wife will do 'most anything for a husband an' give
her body an' soul to un; but she expects summat in return. She wants his
love an' worship for hers; but a mother do give all--all--all--an' never
axes nothin' for it. Just a kiss maybe, an' a brightening eye, or a kind
word. That's her pay, an' better'n gawld, tu. She'm purty nigh satisfied
wi' what would satisfy a dog, come to think on it. 'T is her joy to fret
an' fume an' pine o' nights for un, an' tire the A'mighty's ear wi'
plans an' suggestions for un; aye, think an' sweat an' starve for un all
times. 'T is her joy, I tell 'e, to smooth his road, an' catch the
brambles by his way an' let 'em bury their thorns in her fles