at, my boy," took the scraps of bacon out of her own
bowl, and gave him these also. Her William was fond of bacon, and
though it might be wickedly dear, the boy must have his scraps every
evening. What else had he in the world? Nothing at all, poor boy!

Of five sons, he was the last--two had died young, two had fallen in
France--all these afflictions she had borne with Christian resignation.
But that William had down there so worn himself out with labor that he
had had to be taken to the hospital and in the prime of life had been
declared no longer able-bodied, that grieved her. Up here he had, to be
sure, obtained the position of village herdsman--but was that a proper
office for one who had always been cleverer than the other boys of his
age?--who even today was cleverer than all those who since his time had
passed through the hands of the schoolmaster,--who really ought to have
been ordained in the Church, if they had only had the money. A dunce
can herd swine and drive cattle!

The mother suppressed a sigh and brushed William's bushy brows back
from his eyes.

He merely grunted; and when she urged him, saying, "Eat, my
boy--your favorite supper: scraps and buckwheat porridge!"--he
mechanically carried a spoonful to his lips and let it run out of the
other corner of his mouth. His brow remained contracted, and from the
back of his head, where a fringe of hair was all that remained, a
tremor seemed to run down the length of his spine. His eyes stared
blankly, until suddenly they began to roll, up and down, right and
left; involuntarily they followed the dancing sparks in the fireplace.

The mother watched her son intently while, silently and without the
usual sipping and a satisfied smacking of the lips, she emptied her
bowl. With a mute gesture she drove away the cat, which had crept up
purring and was rubbing its head on the man's legs. She herself hardly
dared to breathe. What was William thinking about, that he was so
still? A short while ago, in winter, he had been much more talkative.
What stories he had told of the factories down there, with their wheels
and cylinders, their chimneys and kettles, their furnaces that had
bellies as big as a beer-barrel at the kirmess--in fact, much
bigger--as big as the pit of hell, with flames a yard long! He had
grown accustomed to the heat, and now he was always cold, poor boy.
Now, even in summer, when other people seek the shade, he stood in the
broiling sun up in the