Her hand went swiftly to my brow, and smoothed back the tousled, wet hair.
“Is you kissed me yet?”
“Oh, ay!” said she.
“Kiss me again, please, mum,” said I, “for I wants—t’ make sure—you done it.”
She kissed me again, very tenderly; and I sighed and fell asleep, content.
IV
THE SHADOW
When the mail-boat left our coast to the long isolation of that winter my mother was even more tender with the scrawny plants in the five red pots on the window-shelf. On gray days, when our house and all the world lay in the soggy shadow of the fog, she fretted sadly for their health; and she kept feverish watch for a rift in the low, sad sky, and sighed and wished for sunlight. It mystified me to perceive the wistful regard she bestowed upon the stalks and leaves that thrived the illest—the soft touches for the yellowing leaves, and, at last, the tear that fell, when, withered beyond hope, they were plucked and cast away—and I asked her why she loved the sick leaves so; and she answered that she knew but would not tell me why. Many a time, too, at twilight, I surprised her sitting downcast by the window, staring out—and far—not upon the rock and sea of our harbour, but as though through the thickening shadows into some other place.