“No, partly for myself; but that must include and emphasize Kathryn’s share.”
“I see––at least I think I do.”
“But you have faith, Mother?”
“Yes, faith! Surely, faith.”
After a silence, broken only by the sputtering of the fire and that soft, mystic pattering of the snow on the window glass, Northrup asked gently:
“And you, Mother, what will you do? I cannot bear to think of you waiting here alone.”
Helen Northrup rose slowly from the couch; her long, loose gown trailed softly as she walked to the fireplace and stood leaning one elbow on the shelf.
“I’m not going to––wait, dear, in the sense you mean. I’m going to work and get ready for your return.”
“Work?” Northrup looked anxious. Helen smiled down upon him.
“While you have been preparing,” she said, “so have I. There is something for me to do. My poor little craft that I have pottered at, keeping it alive and praying over it––my writing job, dear; I have offered for service. It has been accepted. It is my great secret––I’ve kept it for you as my last gift. When you come home, I’ll tell you about 249 it. While you are away you must think of me, busy––busy!”