“Oh, you know, mother! you always know the right things to say.”
“And yet, Arthur,” said his mother, after a very long pause, and speaking in a soft, low voice, as if she was afraid to speak louder, “I do not know what to say now, dear; for I never could say all that is in my heart. I can only say it to God about you, my own child.”
“Do you often pray for me, mother? I don’t think I ever miss praying for you any day.”
“You are always in my heart, Arthur; and so when my heart rises to God, it bears you with it.”
“How nice it is to have a mother,” said Arthur in a restful voice, “even although—” and then he stopped; for he thought it was better to say no more.
“After all, it is not so very, very far to India,” said Arthur. “How long would a telegram take getting there?”
“About two or three hours.”
“Oh, dear, I wish I could be turned into a telegram!” sighed Arthur.
“Oh, but,” said Mrs. Vivyan, laughing, “that would be only doing one little bit of good, and I want my Arthur to be of some use all the day long.”
“How can I,” asked Arthur, “without you?”