“Why don’t you wear white dresses and things, mother?” he said discontentedly.
And the colour ran up into Mrs. Wise’s cheeks. She had suddenly seen herself with her son’s and husband’s eyes.
“I—I think I must, Clif,” she said tremulously.
And that very evening had seen her with some white lace drooped about her neck, and a pink rose in her brooch, and her hair loosened and quite prettily arranged about her forehead.
[165]
]CHAPTER XV
‘A LITTLE FOLDING OF THE HANDS TO SLEEP’
“Not so, not cold! but very poor instead!
Ask God who knows! for frequent tears have run
The colours from my life, and left so dead
And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done
To give the same as pillow to thy head,