'Or some one, I should rather say--your uncle Bryan.'
I returned a disingenuous answer. Uncle Bryan would never leave his shop. What would he find to do in a place where there were no customers to serve, and no business to look after?' (I added mentally, and where he was not master and tyrant?')
'Chris, my dear child,' said my mother humbly and imploringly, 'do not hide your heart from me!'
'Mother!' I cried, shocked at myself.
'Dear child, forgive me! It was forgetfulness on your part, I know, and unkind of me to put such a construction upon it. My boy could not be ungrateful. He knows how I love him, how proud I am of him. How well I remember his promise to me one night--in the old times, my darling, when I used to take in needlework for a living--that he would try to grow into a good man; and how grateful I am to the Lord to see him after all these years a good and clever man, the best, the dearest son that mother was ever blessed with!'
The old times came vividly before me, and a strangely-penitent feeling stirred my heart as I looked into my mother's face, with its expression of yearning love, and thought of the road I had traversed from boyhood to manhood. Bright and beautiful was this road with flowers of sweet affection; a heart whose tenderness time nor trouble could not weaken had cheered me on the way, and unselfish hands had made it smooth for me. The faithful mother who had strewn these flowers was by my side now, shedding the light of her sacred love upon me. She was unchanged and unchangeable, but I---- Ah, me! Let me not think of it. Let me kneel, as I used to kneel with my head in her lap when I was a boy, and when we were all in all to each other. Let me kneel and think of the long, long nights during which my mother used to work for bread for me; the trials, the disappointments, and the cheerful spirit bearing up through all, because a life that was dearer than her own was dependent upon her. The intervening years melted like a dream, and for a little while I was a boy again, and my heart was overflowing with tenderness for this dearest, best of women.
'I remember that night too, mother,' I said, raising my head from her lap; 'I have been looking at it again. I lay awake for a long time watching you; you were sighing softly to yourself, and did not know that I was awake.'
My mother smiled, and sang, as softly now as then, and as sweetly, the very words she had sung on that night.
'You forget nothing, mother.'
'Nothing that is so near to my heart, my dear. Nor would I have you forget Chris, to whom it is we owe our release from the dreadful difficulties that once threatened to overwhelm us; for I was getting very ill, you recollect, when your uncle's letter came to us, and I felt that my strength was failing me. We owe all to him, my dear; wherever our home is he must share it. We must never leave him--never; the mere contemplation of it, after all these years, makes me very unhappy.'