"She waited till nine o'clock, and didn't think much queer. But after that she come out of the bedroom, with her face tied up, and said she, 'Hasn't Willy got home yet?' Then they told her 'No,' and father scowled. And she sat up till ten o'clock, and then do you s'pose anybody went out doors to hunt? She didn't sleep a wink all night. Don't see how folks can lie awake so. I couldn't if I should try; but I'm not a woman, you know, and I don't believe I should care much about my boys, if I was. Would I mend their trousis for 'em, when they tore 'em on a nail, going where I told 'em not to? For, says I, I can't bear the sight of a child that won't mind. But you see, mother—
"Poor mother, what'll she do without me? She said there wasn't anybody she could take in her arms to hug but just me. Stephen's too big to sit in her lap, and Love's too big; and there wouldn't anybody think of hugging Seth, if he was ever so little.
"Yes, mother wants me. I remember that song she sings about the Scotch woman that lost her baby, and she cries a little before she gets through."
The words were set to a plaintive air, and Willy hummed it over to himself,—
"I ha'e naebody now, I ha'e naebody now
To clasp at my bosom at even,
O'er his calm sleep to breathe out a vow,
And pray for the blessing of Heaven."
"Poor mother, how that makes her cry! Why, I declare, I'm crying too! Somehow seems's if I couldn't get along without mother. But there, I won't be a cry-baby! Hush up, Willy Parlin!
"What'll I do? Wish I hadn't come. Wish I'd thought more about mother—how she's going to feel.
"What if I should turn right round now, and go home? Why, father'd whip me worse'n ever—that's what. Well, who cares? It'll feel better after it's done smarting. Guess I can stand it. Look here, Will Parlin, I'm going."
Bravo, Willy! With both feet he plunged into the river, and waded slowly across. Very slowly, for his mind was not fully made up yet. There was a great deal of thinking to be done first; but he might as well be moving on while he thought. Every now and then rebellious pride, or anger, or shame would get the better of him, and he would wheel round, with the impulse to strike off into the unknown Somewhere, where boys lived without whippings. But the thought of his mother always stopped him.
Was there an invisible cord which stretched from her heart to his—a cord of love, which drew him back to her side? He could see her sorrowful face, he could hear her pleading voice, and the very tremble in it when she sang,—