"No, nothing—they wanted something we didn't have; I sent them to Ford's," referring to a more elaborate establishment on an adjoining street. "I was speaking about you going to the elders' meeting, Harvey—I'll go with you as far as the church, as I said. And you mustn't be afraid, son; they'll be glad you're going to join the church. And you must just answer what they ask you, the same as you do to me at home."
"Will they ask me the catechism, mother?"
"Some of the questions, most likely. Be sure you know 'effectual calling'—I think they nearly always ask 'effectual calling.'"
"I know that one all right," the boy answered. "I said it to Jessie four times last night—do you think there'll be others there to join the church, mother?"
"I couldn't say for sure, but it's likely there'll be some. I guess it's almost time to go now, dear," she said rising. "Jessie, you'll do the best you can if anybody comes in—I'll not be long."
"Will it be all right about—about you finding your way back, mother?" Harvey asked slowly, his voice full of solicitude.
"Of course, child, of course—you and Jessie are growing quite foolish about me. I'm not so bad as that," she protested. "Why, I can tell the day of the month, when I stand up close to the calendar—this is the 23d," she affirmed reassuringly, stepping out into the night with Harvey clinging close beside her.
Neither spoke much as they walked on towards the village church. Often, when she thought the boy's eyes were not upon her, the woman lifted her own upward to the silent stars; the night always rested her, something of its deep tranquillity passing into the tired heart that had known so much of battle. And yet the long struggle had left upon her face the marks of peace rather than the scars of conflict. Of merriment, there were traces few or none, although sufficient provocation could recall the old-time sparkle to the eyes that had been so often dimmed; but something noble was there instead, a placid beauty such as comes alone from resignation, born of a heart that has found its rest in a Strength and Tenderness which dwell beyond the hills of time. If one could have caught a vision of that face, upturned to the radiant sky above her, the glimpse would have disclosed features of shapely strength, marked by great patience, the eyes full of brooding gentleness and love, conscious of the stern battle that composed her life, but conscious, too—and this it was that touched the face with passion—of invisible resources, of an unseen Ally that mysteriously bore her on.
"Let us go in here a minute," the mother said when they were almost at the church.
Harvey followed her, unquestioning. He knew whither her feet were turned, for he had often followed that well-marked path before, often with toddling feet. They entered the quiet churchyard, passing many an imposing monument, threading their way with reverent steps among the graves, careful that no disrespect should be shown the humblest sleeper. On they pressed, the dew glistening upon their shoes as they walked, their very breathing audible amid the oppressive silence. Gradually the woman's steps grew slower; and as she crept close to an unmarked grave that lay among the untitled mounds around it, the slender frame trembled slightly, drawing her poor shawl closer as she halted with downcast eyes, gazing at the silent sepulchre as it lay bathed in the lonely light of the new-risen moon. The boy stood behind her for a moment, then crept close to her, his hand gliding into hers; the woman's closed about it passionately, its warmth stealing inward to her heart.