nd as I understood her meaning I
took my hands from Rucker's throat, and threw him from me. He lay on the
floor for a minute, and as he scrambled to his feet I sank down on the
nearest chair and buried my face in my hands.

It was all over, then; my long lone quest for my mother--a quest I had
carried on since I was a little, scared, downtrodden child. I should
never have the chance to serve her in my way as she had served me in
hers--my way that would never have been anything but a very small and
easy one at the most; while hers had been a way full of torment and
servitude. All my strength was gone; and the girl seemed to know it; for
she came over to me and patted me on the shoulder in a motherly sort
of way.

"Poor boy!" she said. "Poor boy! To-morrow, come to me and I'll show you
your mother's grave. I'll take you to the doctor that attended her. I
know how you feel."

I had passed a sleepless night before I remembered to feel revolted at
the sympathy of this hussy who had helped to bring my mother to her
death--and I did not go near her. But I inquired my way from one doctor
to another--there were not many in Madison then--until I found one,
named Mix, who had treated my mother in her last illness. She was weak
and run down, he said, and couldn't stand a run of lung fever, which had
carried her off.

"Did she mention me?" I asked.

"At the very last," said Doctor Mix, "she said once or twice, 'He had to
work too hard!' I don't know who she meant. Not Rucker, eh?"

I shook my head--I knew what she meant.

"And," said he, "if you can see your way clear to arrange with old
Rucker to pay my bill--winter is on now, and I could use the money."

I pulled out my pocketbook and paid the bill.

"Thank you, my boy," said he, "thank you!"

"I'm glad to do it," I answered--and turned away my head.

"Anything more I can do for you?" asked Doctor Mix, much kinder than
before.

"I'd be much obliged," I replied, "if you could tell me where I can find
some one that'll be able to show me my mother's grave."

"I'll take you there," he said quickly.

We rode to the graveyard in his sleigh, the bells jingling too merrily
by far, I thought; and then to a marble-cutter from whom I bought a
headstone to be put up in the spring. I worked out an epitaph which
Doctor Mix, who seemed to see through the case pretty well, put into
good language, reading as follows: "Here lies the body of Mary Brouwer
Vandemark, born in Ulster C