a revelation: that of the
spiritual significance of her motherhood.

"Thank God!" she thought, uplifted by this vision. "Oh, thank God!
I'm like them other people. I'm fit to bring him up!"

It thundered ominously.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to _Nearing the Sea_]

[Illustration: Headpiece to _The Last Appeal_]

_THE LAST APPEAL_

She sat waiting for him at the bench by the lilac bush. He was late,
she thought--strangely late. She wondered why. It was dark. The
night was close and hot. There was no breath of air stirring in the
park. From time to time the lightning flashed. In fast lessening
intervals came the thunder. Presently she caught ear of his step on
the pavement--still distant: approaching, not from the church, but from
the direction of the curate's home.

"And he's not running!" she thought, quick to take alarm.

They were inexplicable--these lagging feet. He had never before
dawdled on the way. Her alarm increased. She waited anxiously--until,
with eyes downcast, he stood before her.

"Richard!" she tenderly said.

"I'm here, mother," he answered; but he did not look at her.

She put her arms around him. "Your mother," she whispered, while she
kissed him, "is glad--to feel you--lying here."

He lay quiet against her--his face on her bosom. She was thrilled by
this sweet pressure.

"Have you been happy?" she asked.

"No."

"Nor I, dear!"

He turned his face--not to her: to the flaming cross above the church.
She had invited a question. But he made no response.

"Nor I," she repeated.

Still he gazed at the cross. It was shining in a black cloud--high in
the sky. She felt him tremble.

"Hold me tight!" he said.

She drew him to her--glad to have him ask her to: having no disquieting
question.

"Tighter!" he implored.

She rocked him. "Hush, dear!" she crooned. "You're safe--with your
mother. What frightens you?"

"The cross!" he sobbed.

God knows! 'twas a pity that his childish heart misinterpreted the
message of the cross--changing his loving purpose into sin. But the
misinterpretation was not forever to endure....

The wind began to stir the leaves--tentative gusts: swirling eagerly
through the park. There was a flash--an instant clap of thunder,
breaking overhead, rumbling angrily away. Two men ran past. Great
drops of rain splashed on the pavement.

"Let us go home," the boy said.

"Not yet!" she protested. "Oh, not yet!"

He