"There is no such one," sharply. "There is no one yonder but knows his home, and is nearer to his God than you or I, James Yarrow."
The boy made no reply,—sat on her knees looking earnestly into the fire. He had more nearly guessed her secret than she knew,—near enough to know how to comfort her. After a while, when she was quiet, he turned, and put his thin arms about her neck, smiling.
"Take me into your bed, mother, I'm so cold! Let me into old Catty's place this once."
She nodded, pleased, and, putting him to bed, soon followed him. When she held him snugly in her arms, the replenished fire making hot, flickering shadows from the next room, he whispered,—
"Next Christmas, mother! Only one year more!"
Again the quick shiver of her body; but this time her breath was gentle, a soft light in her eyes.
"Well, and then, my son?"
"Why, some one else then will call me son. How long he has been gone, dear! so long that I never saw him since I was a bit of a baby."
"Five years. Yes. Well, dear?" anxiously.
Her eyes were shut, he stroked the lids softly, thinking how moist and red her lips were: never as beautiful a face as the little mother's; for so Jem, feeling quite grown up in his heart, called her there.