should be ailing, but now sure that she would not leave me.
Next morning my father leaned over our breakfast table and laid his broad hand upon my mother’s shoulder; whereupon she looked up smiling, as ever she did when that big man caressed her.
“I’ll be havin’ the doctor for you,” he said.
She gave him a swift glance of warning—then turned her wide eyes upon me.
“Oh,” said my father, “the lad knows you is sick. ’Tis no use tryin’ t’ keep it from un any more.”
“Ay,” I sobbed, pushing my plate away, for I was of a sudden no longer hungry, “I heared you cryin’ las’ night.”
My sister came quickly to my side, and wound a soft arm about my neck, and drew my head close to her heart, and kissed me many times; and when she had soothed me I looked up and found my mother gloriously glad that I had cried.
“ ’Tis nothing,” then she said, with a rush of tenderness for my grief. “ ’Tis not hard to bear. ’Tis——”
“Ay, but,” said my father, “I’ll be havin’ the doctor t’ see you.”
My mother pooh-poohed it all. The doctor? For her? Not she! She was not sick enough for that!
“I’m bent,” said my father, doggedly, “on havin’ that man.”
“David,” cried my mother, “I’ll not have you do it!”
“I’ll have my way of it,” said my father. “I’m bent on it, an’ I’ll be put off no longer. ’Tis no use, m’am—nar a bit! The doctor’s comin’ t’ see you.”
“Ah, well!” sighed my mother.
“Ay,” said my father, “I’ll have that man ashore when the mail-boat comes in the spring. ’Tis well on t’ December now,” he went on, “an’ it may be we’ll have an early break-up. Sure, if they’s westerly winds in the spring, an’ the ice clears away in good season, we’ll be havin’ the mail-boat north in May. Come, now! ’twill not be later than June, I ’low. An’ I’ll have that doctor ashore in a hurry, mark my words, when the anchor’s down. That I will!”
“ ’Tis a long time,” said my mother.
Every morning, thereafter, she said that she was better—always better—much, much better. ’Twas wonderful, she said, ’twas fair past making out, indeed, that she should so soon grow into a fine, hearty woman again; and ’twould be an easy matter, said she, for the mail-boat doctor to cure her—when he came. And she was now more discreet with her moods; not once did I catch her brooding alone, though more than once I lay in wait in dark corners or peered through the crack in the door; and she went smiling about the house, as of old—but yet not as of old; and I puzzled over the difference, but could not discover it. More often, now, at twilight, she lured me to her lap, where I was never loath to go, great lad of nine years though I was; and she sat silent with me, rocking, rocking, while the deeper night came down—and she kissed me so often that I wondered she did not tire of it—and she stroked my brow and cheeks, and touched my eyes, and ran her finger-tips over my eyebrows and nose and lips, ay, and softly played with my lips—and at times she strained me so hard to her breast that I near complained of the embrace—and I was no more driven off to bed when my eyes grew heavy, but let lie in her arms, while we sat silent, rocking, rocking, until long, long after I had fallen asleep. And once, at the end of a sweet, strange hour, making believe to play, she gently pried my eyes wide open and looked far into their depths—so deep, so long, so searchingly, so strangely, that I waxed uneasy under the glance.
“Wh-wh-what—what you——” I began, inarticulately.
“What am I looking for?” she interrupted, speaking quickly.
“Ay,” I whimpered, for I was deeply agitated; “what you lookin’ for?”
“For your heart,” said she.
I did not know what she meant; and I wondered concerning the fancy she had, but did not ask, for there was that in her voice and eyes that made me very solemn.
“ ’Tis but a child’s heart,” she sighed, turning away. “ ’Tis but like the hearts,” she whispered, “of all children. I cannot tell—I cannot tell,” she sobbed, “and I want—oh, I want so much—to know!”
“Don’t cry!” I pleaded, thrown into an agony by her tears, in the way of all children.
She sat me back in her lap. “Look in your mother’s eyes, lad,” said she, “and say after me this: ‘My mother——’ ”
“ ‘My mother——’ ” I repeated, very soberly.
“ ‘Looked upon my heart——’ ”
“ ‘Looked upon my heart——’ ” said I.
“ ‘And found it brave——’ ”
“ ‘An’ found it brave——’ ”
“ ‘And sweet——’ ”
“ ‘An’ sweet——’ ”
“ ‘Willing for the day’s work——’ ” said she.
“ ‘Willing for the day’s work——’ ” I repeated.
“ ‘And harbouring no shameful hope.’ ”
“ ‘An’ harbouring—no shameful—hope.’ ”
Again and again she had me say it—until I knew it every word by heart.
“Ah,” said she, at last, “but you’ll forget!”
“No, no!” I cried. “I’ll not forget. ‘My mother looked upon my heart,’ ” I rattled, “ ‘an’ found it brave an’ sweet, willing for the day’s work an’ harbouring no shameful hope.’ I’ve not forgot! I’ve not forgot!”
“He’ll forget,” she whispered, but not to me, “like all children.”
But I have not forgotten—I have not forgotten—I have never forgotten—that when I was a child my mother looked upon my heart and found it brave and sweet, willing for the day’s work and harbouring no shameful hope.
The winter fell early and with ominous severity. Our bleak coast was soon too bitter with wind and frost and snow for the folk to continue in their poor habitations. They were driven in haste to the snugger inland tilts, which lay in a huddle at the Lodge, far up Twisted Arm, in the blessed proximity of fire-wood—there to trap and sleep in hardly mitigated misery until the kindlier spring days should once again invite them to the coast. My father, the only trader on forty miles of our coast, as always dealt them salt beef and flour and tea with a free hand, until, at last, the storehouses were swept clean of food, save sufficient for our own wants: his great heart hopeful that the catch of next season, and the honest hearts of the folk, and the mysterious favor of the Lord, would all conspire to repay him. And so they departed, bag and baggage, youngsters and dogs; and the waste of
