She did not reply, but seated herself quietly. Her eyes were unusually bright, for on a page of the magazine she held, she had seen a title. A thrill akin to that when she had first held Donnie in her arms, made her heart throb quickly.
Donnie had been flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone; but this, the first-born of her brain, had come through travail of her very soul. It was not necessary for her to read the eight lines of the poem; they were indelibly imprinted on her memory. A mother cannot forget the face of her child, and though it be commonplace and unattractive to all the world, in her eyes it is beautiful.
Glendon's voice brought her back from her world of dreams.
"I wish you'd stop sitting there staring like a locoed calf, and pay attention to what I have to say."
She turned her eyes on him. "I'm sorry, Jim. I didn't hear you speak."
"I didn't," he snapped. "No use talking when you have a mooning fit on."
"I am listening, dear. What is it?"
"Here's a letter from the old man. He wants Donald. You can see for yourself what he says."
Glendon handed her the letter, allowing it to drop from his fingers purposely, watching her as she reached down and picked it up.
As she read, a grey pallor spread over her face, making it look old and haggard.