The Story of Silk

by Sara Ware Bassett

Again the kindly voice wavered.

"We shall know he has been lost," put in Pierre in a whisper.

"I fear so."

Stillness fell between the two. Each was thinking.

"Then for the present I will not speak yet to my mother of selling the home," said Pierre at last. "We will wait and hope for good news. It is cruel to distress her unless we must. All may yet be well. Surely she has grief enough as it is, for she was very fond of my uncle."

"You are a wise lad, Pierre," exclaimed the curé. "Do as you have said. Console your mother with the hope of good tidings from the front. They may come—who knows? And if not, her sorrows will at least come singly and not all at once."

And thus it came about that through the great grief that overwhelmed the Bretton home it was Pierre who was his mother's stay and comfort. He it was who counseled hope and patience; he who took up the burden of acting both as father and son.

But despite his courage the message so eagerly longed for did not come. Days, weeks, months dragged on. The winter passed and faint hints of spring began to steal into the landscape. The river, foaming with the melted snows from far up the Pyrenees, dashed with deafening roar through the mountain gorges. There was a new brilliancy in the noonday sunshine.

To Pierre the worst had now become a certainty. His father would never again be heard from. Somewhere in a camp or battle-field far from home like a true son of France he had given up his life for his beloved country. With sinking heart the boy faced this reality. He had not sensed until now how subtly a secret anticipation that the facts might prove otherwise had buoyed him up. But now hope was gone. How should he tell his mother? How break in upon the dream she was cherishing, and rudely force upon her the need for action?

How would she receive the plan for selling the home? To leave the spot she loved so much would be an overpowering blow to her, for had she not come as a bride to her present dwelling? Nay, more; she had been born in Bellerivre and had never ventured beyond its confines. What would she say to breaking every tie of her old life and setting forth from the valley she loved to end her days in a strange and unknown country? For Marie and himself it was well enough; they were young and their days stretched far before them. But for his mother it would mean only the severing of every familiar association.