“A. E. Morse.”
When Mary had finished the letter, she sat as one stunned. Her mind seemed on fire. Mechanically she picked up the pearls that she had thrown on the bed. Her mother had carried them with her through that awful fire. They were one of her two treasures and now she had almost said she would not wear them. Oh, what a selfish girl she had been! She had thought only of herself.
Once she had asked her mother why the scar was upon her face and she had answered, “Just an accident, child, when I was a young woman.” Then she had talked of something else. The lame foot, the misshapen hands, the red face, the queer little knot of hair—all were the 67 price paid for her own life. Every minute since she was born, she had been a burden to her mother.
Now she understood why the little bank account which she had accidentally found was being so carefully saved. She had not known that she was to go to college.
Now she remembered that it had been years since mother had had a new dress, but she had thought it was because she was queer. There had been many days when mother had seemed cross—was it because she was suffering? Oh, how sorry she was! What could she do to make her happy now that she knew?
Slowly she undressed for bed. She must be in the dark to think. When she knelt in prayer, she asked God to forgive her—but she remembered that she could not ask mother to do so. She remembered the words of her mother to Mr. Morse,
“It would kill me to have her sorry for me. She must love me for myself and not for what I did.”
So she tossed and tumbled as the time slipped by. Suddenly she heard a foot dragging across the hall, and a big lump came into her throat. How often she had rebelled at that foot! Then her mother came quietly into the room.
“Mother,” said Mary, “why are you here? Aren’t you asleep yet?”
“No, dear,” said the mother, and the girl thought she had never heard a more beautiful voice. “I heard you tossing in the bed and I thought perhaps you were ill. So I came to see. What is the trouble, dear?”