eld out her
needlework.

"A tray-cover. I noticed you haven't got one.... Rows of hemstitching
with a square of filet in the centre. Do you like it?"

I dabbed my eyes, forced a smile, and leaned over to watch her draw the
threads. "Wonderful," I said, "marvellously fine, and such tedious
work." I forced myself to fill up the gaps in the conversation.

The evening flagged slowly and gently. The oil in the lamp was giving
out. A drowse gradually laid itself upon the delicate maternal face;
under the scant light beginning to smell of smoke, it looked almost like
a mummy's.

She is asleep now.

* * * * *

My imagination is free; the frightful impression carries me far back to
a time shrouded in dimness which resembles my childhood days.

A mere baby still. At night caressing hands tucked me in bed. I held up
my forehead for the kisses of a fairy....

A little girl who ran and fell and hurt her forehead and palms and flew
with her troubles to the living Providence. "Did you hurt yourself?...
Ah, you're bleeding!" I felt the thrill of the miraculous wound because
she caught me in her arms and pressed my undeserved suffering to her
heart. Then she tended me, oh, so gently. When she finished, I secretly
regretted that the hurt was assuaged and I had no more blood to offer,
red flowing blood, in exchange for the doting tenderness that it brought
raining down upon me.

A long illness. A veritable angel hovering all the time. Clouds in my
room, clouds on my bed, and a constant buzzing in my ears. When the
angel moved, a current of freshness reached me, a magnificent hand
raised the head which weighed like a ball of fire, and the heavenly
voice said in the tone of ordinary mothers: "Drink, darling!"

* * * * *

When my memory brings me up to the moments of effort, the real moments
which count, I find myself an orphan.

No, you were not there, mother, when my inner life developed, nor the
first morning when I saw clearly, nor when my love came. You were never
with me at any time when my good will acted, never, never. It was you
who stayed behind and left me. I went on my way. Should I have stopped
to stay behind with you?

You idolized my littleness, my tears, my naughtinesses. You covered them
all up, I know. But one can't keep on being ill, or naughty, or a little
tot.

You are the mother, you pardon everything. When father scolded us, you
came with