night she took him in her lap, in the old close way, in which he
loved to be held, and sat rocking, for a time, silently.

"Let us talk, dear," she said.

"I think I'm too sick," he sighed. "I just want to lie here--and not
talk."

He had but expressed her own desire--to have him lie there: not to
talk, but just to feel him lying in her arms.

"We must," she said.

Something in her voice--something distinguishable from the recent days
as deep and real--aroused the boy. He touched the lashes of her
eyes--and found them wet.

"Why are you crying?" he asked. "Oh, tell me, mother! Tell me _now_!"

She did not answer.

"I'm sick," he muttered. "I--I--think I'm very sick."

"Something has happened, dear," she said. "I'm going to tell you
what." She paused--and in the pause felt his body grow tense in a
familiar way. For a moment the prospect frightened her. She felt,
vaguely, that she was playing with that which was infinitely
delicate--which might break in her very hands, and leave her desolate.
"You know, dear," she continued, faltering, "we used to be very rich.
But we're not, any more." It was a poor lie--she realized that: and
was half ashamed. "We're very poor, now," she went on, hurriedly. "A
man broke into the bank and stole all your mother's gold and diamonds
and lovely dresses. She hasn't anything--any more." She had conceived
a vast contempt for the lie; she felt that it was a weak, unpracticed
thing--but she knew that it was sufficient: for he had never yet
doubted her. "So I don't know what she'll do," she concluded, weakly.
"She will have to stop having good times, I guess. She will have to go
to work."

He straightened in her lap. "No, no!" he cried, gladly. "_I'll_ work!"

Her impulse was to express her delight in his manliness, her triumphant
consciousness of his love--to kiss him, to hug him until he cried out
with pain. But she restrained all this--harshly, pitilessly. She had
no mercy upon herself.

"I'll work!" he repeated.

"How?" she asked. "You don't know how."

"Teach me."

She laughed--an ironical little laugh: designed to humiliate him.
"Why," she exclaimed, "I don't know how to teach you!"

He sighed.

"But," she added, significantly, "the curate knows."

"Then," said he, taking hope, "the curate will teach me."

"Yes; but----"

"But what? Tell me quick, mother!"

"Well," she hesitated, "the curate is so busy. Anyhow, dear," she
continued, "I wou