uch a longing as comes upon a little
child for its mother when it has been left all alone in the house, and
has gone seeking her in all the chambers, and finds she is not there.
And as on a day he went slowly down to the boulder by the stream in the
failing light, thinking of her who had cherished his childhood--how he
had clung to her gown, how with his little hand in hers he had run by
her side, how she had taken him on her lap and made his hurts all well
with kisses, his heart failed him, and crying aloud "Mother, O mother!"
he knelt by the boulder, and laid his head on his arms, weeping.

Then from among the trees on the further side of the brook came a
maiden running, but she paused at the stepping-stones when she saw
Waldo, and said, "Was it thy voice I heard calling 'Mother'?"

The monk did not answer or move.

"Art thou Brother Waldo?" she asked.

Raising his head, he looked at her and replied, "I am Brother Waldo."

"Poor brother, I pity thee," said the maiden; "there is no man or maid
but pities thee. If thou wilt tell me of thy mother, I will find her,
even were I to travel far, and bid her come to thee. Well I wot she
will come to thee if she may."

For all his manhood and learning and holiness, Waldo could not still
the crying of the little child within him, and he told the maiden of
his mother, and blessed her, and asked her name. When she answered
that it was Dorothy, "Truly," said he, "it is a fair name and gracious,
and in thy coming thou hast been a gift of God to me."

Thereupon the maiden left him, and Waldo returned to his hut, comforted
and full of hope.

After a month had gone Dorothy returned. Crossing the stepping-stones
in the clear light of the early morning, she found Waldo meditating by
the door of his hut.

"I have done thy bidding, brother," she said in a gentle voice, "but
alas! thy mother cannot come to thee. Grieve not too much at this, for
she is with God. She must have died about the time thou didst call for
her; and well may I believe that it was she who sent me to thee in her
stead."

"The will of God be done," said Waldo, and he bowed his head, and spoke
no more for a long while; but the maiden stood patiently awaiting till
he had mastered his grief.

At length he raised his head and saw her. "Art thou not gone?" he
asked. "I thought thou hadst gone. Thou art good and gentle, and I
thank thee. Go now, for here thou mayst not stay."

"Nay, brother," replied