"The river takes them."
He was made uneasy: being conscious of the deeper meaning—acutely aware of some strange dread stirring in her heart.
"Maybe," he protested, "they're glad to go away."
She shook her head. "One night," she said, leaning towards the window, seeming now to forget the boy, "I seen the sea. All the lights on the river go different ways—when they get out there. It is a dark and lonesome place—big and dark and lonesome."
"Then," said he, quickly, "you would not like to be there."
"No," she answered. "I do not like the sky," she continued; "it is so big and empty. I do not like the sea; it is so big and dark. And black winds are always blowing there; and the lights go different ways. The lights," she muttered, "go different ways! I am afraid of the dark. And, oh!" she moaned, suddenly crushing him to her breast, rocking him, in an agony of tenderness, "I am afraid of something else. Oh, I am afraid!"
"Of what?" he gasped.
"To be alone!" she sobbed.
He released himself from her arms—sat back on her knee: quivering from head to foot, his hands clenched, his lips writhing. "Don't, mother!" he cried. "Don't cry. We will not go to the sea. We will not!"
"We must," she whispered.