The rector tells of his continued ministerial work and lonesome life.
That evening neither referred to their great loss. Upon the following day Oswald's father told about the mother's troubles after the son's flight, and related some of the incidents of her last sickness. Neither parent ever confided to any human being Oswald's plight, nor had either the least information about his fate.
"Mother talked and dreamed of her absent son. In sleep she sang cradle lullabys and gently reproved her 'own little Ossie.' For hours she would sit looking out of the window, expecting your return.
"Without apparent cause came that fatal attack. After a few days the physician said there was no hope. His diagnosis revealed no malignant disease, but indicated a total collapse of vital forces. For hours mother would lay at the window, clasping your boyhood miniature, often turning it toward the light of the sun or stars. Just before going into her last long sleep mother looked out into the rayless dark, and whispered:
"'Percy, dear, see that star! It is coming this way. Now I will go and find Ossie!'
"She has been dead two years."
Each bearing flowers, father and son visit the grave. Wife and mother is not there, but these floral tokens are sacred to loving, pathetic memories. Her ministries know, but feel not earthly limitations.
Oswald stands long with bowed, uncovered head. Neither speaks. There are no tears. Reverend Percy Langdon passes his arm through that of his son and slowly leads homeward.
Upon the next day Oswald starts for Northfield. He promises soon to return and talk over plans with his father.
Upon Oswald's spirits has settled deep pensiveness, so solemn as to check all buoyant exuberance, for the time restraining joyous tremor at thought of those waiting Northfield greetings.