e was a wee
laddie. How she loved to finger and fondle them!

Fifteen years she had been his mother--now this was all she had!
Somewhere in the same world with her he was living, was walking about,
talking, eating, sleeping; yet he was dead to her! Oh, if she could only
know that he was happy, that he was well, that he lacked nothing in the
way of creature comfort; if she could know where he was, picture him at
work or in his leisure hours, it would not be so hard to bear.

But she knew nothing--nothing--save that he had gone to Boston.

One letter she had had from him there--such a dear one!--she knew it by
heart. In it he had called her "Mother" and assured her of his constant
love and thought of her. He had arrived safely, he said, and would soon
be busy making his living. Boston was a fine city and full of interest
to him. When his ship came in he was going to have her come on and pay
him a visit there. He would write again when he had anything worth
telling.

Days had passed--weeks--and no word had come. Had he failed to obtain
employment? Had he gone further--to New York, perhaps, or Philadelphia?
She did not know. Oh, if she could but _know_!

Was he ill? Fear clutched her heart and made her faint. The suspense was
terrible, and she had no one to go to for sympathy--no one. She dared
not mention her anxiety to her husband; it made him furious. He could
not stand the sound of Eddie's name, even--her darling, beautiful Eddie!
Her arms felt so empty they ached.

Winter was passing. The garden that Eddie loved so dearly was coming to
life. The crocuses for which he always watched with so much interest
were come and gone. The jonquils were in bloom and the first sweet
hyacinths, blue as turquoises, she had gathered and put in his room. It
cheered her to see them there. Somehow, they made the room look more
"ready" than usual--as if he might come home that day.

He did not come, but something else did. A letter with the Boston
post-mark she had so longed to see, and a small, flat package addressed
to her in his dear hand. She broke the seal of the letter first--she was
so hungry for the sight of the familiar, "Mother dear," and to know how
he fared.

It was a short letter, but, ah, the blessed relief of knowing he was
well and happy! And _prospering_--prospering famously--for he told her
he was sending her the first copy off the press of his book of poems! It
was a _very little_ book, he said, but it was a beg