“Mama,” he whispered, “where is you?”
There was no answer to the child’s question. The risen wind blew wildly in the black night without. But it was still dim and breathless in the room.
“Mama,” said the child, “is your soul hidin’ from me?”
Still the child was left unanswered. He waited, listening—but was not answered.
“Don’t hide,” he pleaded. “Oh, don’t hide, for I’m not wantin’ to play! Oh, mother, I’m wantin’ you sore!”
And, now, he knew that she would come, for, “I’m wantin’ you, mother!” he had been used to crying in the night, and she had never failed to answer, but had come swiftly and with comfort. He waited for a voice and for a vision, surely expecting them in answer to his cry; but he saw only shadows, heard only the scream of the wind, and a sudden, angry patter of rain on the roof. Then the child that was I fancied that his mother’s soul had fled while yet he slept, and, being persuaded that its course was heavenward, ran out, seeking it. And he forgets what then he did, save that he climbed the broken cliff behind the house, crying, “Wait, oh, wait!” and that he came, at last, to the summit of the Watchman, where there was a tumult of wind and rain.
“Mama!” he screamed, lifting his hands in appeal to the wide, black sky. “You forgot t’ kiss me good-bye! Oh, come back!”
He flung himself prone on the naked rock, for the soul of his mother did not come, though patiently he had watched for the glory of its returning flight.
“She’ve forgot me!” he moaned. “Oh, she’ve forgot me!”