“Oh, before that, I hope. When you want to do the things you ought to do. But now, out you go for your run, up to the pine root and back again. I’ll time you.” She pulled out her watch. The little lad, every muscle taut, set himself.
“All set!” she cried. “Ready! Go!”
As if released from a spring the lithe little body shot forward and disappeared through the underbrush. She waited for him, watch in hand, waited, thinking, then forgot him. The minutes went on unheeded, so too her mind. Down the years it went, following that lithe figure, that eager shining face gallantly fronting the unknown, unafraid and alone. She could not see herself with him. She knew, she had faced the knowledge steadily till she could face it calmly, she knew her vision of that gallant and lonely figure would soon, too soon, be realised. His father—somehow she could not see them together. They were not made for the same path. Hugh, her dear, splendid, happy hearted, easy-going man, was made for the smooth ways through the low lands, but her boy she always saw with face lifted up to the heights. He would never be content with the levels. The hills, yes, and the mountains were for him. And hence he must go alone. As for her, she was tired, unfit, nearly done. No heights for her, but rest, deep, still and comforting. Well, she knew she would find it; of that she had no fear. And the deep heart-break of leaving all this light and warmth and love, that had made life to her, she had surmounted. She had allowed her eyes to follow her son’s and through the clouds next the blue she had seen a face that seemed kind and she had grown content. An infinite comfort had stolen over her aching heart that Sunday not so long ago as she thought over her little boy’s quaint words, “And I like Him, Mother, and I think He likes me.” Alone she might be, and alone her little boy might be, but never quite alone after all would either be, no matter where the path might lead. With a start she came back to the present hour. She looked at her watch. The boy had been gone thirty minutes, instead of ten at the most. She was not alarmed. The woods were safe, and she knew her boy. Young as he was, she knew he was without fear and could be depended upon to do the wise thing. But where was he? She set off slowly toward the big pine root. The April sun was kindly in its warmth, the pine needles dry under foot, and the air was rich with the aroma of the pines. She moved quietly through the brush, saving her strength, as she had need, with her ear alert for a sound of her little lad. In a few minutes she heard his joyous shout. He had caught sight of her through an opening in the bush, and came tearing through toward her.
“Mother! Mother,” he shouted, “the baby is choking, Mother! dying! Come! oh, come quick! Mother.”
“What are you talking about, Paul? Don’t shout, speak quietly.” She held him firmly, speaking calmly. “What baby, and where is it?”
“Oh, Mother, it’s——”
“Stop, Paul! Now, quietly——”
The boy took hold of himself and began in a quiet voice. “Yes, Mother. The baby is up in the woods by the big root. It is an Indian baby, and it is choking.”
“Show me the way.”
With all the speed she could make she followed the boy, and in a few minutes came upon a pathetic little group, a young Indian woman, exquisitely beautiful in face and form, a mere girl she seemed, kneeling before a child of four, lying on a blanket, with face deeply cyanosed and distorted, looking like death.