s for
your sake? Have I not given up going to Virginia, and now again settled
to go after all, just because you commanded? Was it not your will? Have
I not obeyed you, mother, mother? I will stay at home now, if you will.
I would rather rust here on land, I vow I would, than grieve you--" and
he threw himself at his mother's knees.

"Have I asked you not to go to Virginia? No, dear boy, though every
thought of a fresh parting seems to crack some new fibre within me, you
must go! It is your calling. Yes; you were not sent into the world to
amuse me, but to work. I have had pleasure enough of you, my darling,
for many a year, and too much, perhaps; till I shrank from lending you
to the Lord. But He must have you. . . . It is enough for the poor old
widow to know that her boy is what he is, and to forget all her anguish
day by day, for joy that a man is born into the world. But, Amyas,
Amyas, are you so blind as not to see that Ayacanora--"

"Don't talk about her, poor child. Talk about yourself."

"How long have I been worth talking about? No, Amyas, you must see it;
and if you will not see it now, you will see it one day in some sad and
fearful prodigy; for she is not one to die tamely. She loves you, Amyas,
as a woman only can love."

"Loves me? Well, of course. I found her, and brought her home; and I
don't deny she may think that she owes me somewhat--though it was no
more than a Christian man's duty. But as for her caring much for me,
mother, you measure every one else's tenderness by your own."

"Think that she owes you somewhat? Silly boy, this is not gratitude,
but a deeper affection, which may be more heavenly than gratitude, as
it may, too, become a horrible cause of ruin. It rests with you, Amyas,
which of the two it will be."

"You are in earnest?"

"Have I the heart or the time to jest?"

"No, no, of course not; but, mother, I thought it was not comely for
women to fall in love with men?"

"Not comely, at least, to confess their love to men. But she has never
done that, Amyas; not even by a look or a tone of voice, though I have
watched her for months."

"To be sure, she is as demure as any cat when I am in the way. I only
wonder how you found it out."

"Ah," said she, smiling sadly, "even in the saddest woman's soul there
linger snatches of old music, odors of flowers long dead and turned to
dust--pleasant ghosts, which still keep her mind attuned to that which
may be in others, though in her n