Dorian | Page 5

chores. There
were no signs of mother. The dusk turned to darkness, yet no light
appeared in the house. Dorian went in and lighted the lamp and
proceeded to get supper.
The mother came presently, carrying a bag of wool. "A big herd of
sheep went by this afternoon," she explained, "and they left a lot of fine
wool on the barbed-wire fences. See, I have gathered enough for a pair
of stockings." She seated herself.
"You're tired," said Dorian.
"Yes."
"Well, you sit and rest; I'll soon have the supper on the table." This was
no difficult task, as the evening meal was usually a very simple one,
and Dorian had frequently prepared it. This evening as the mother sat
there quietly she looked at her son with admiring eyes. What a big boy
he was getting to be! He had always been big, it seemed to her. He had
been a big baby and a big little boy, and now he was a big young man.
He had a big head and big feet, big hands. His nose and mouth were big,
and big freckles dotted his face--yes, and a big heart, as his mother very
well knew. Along with his bigness of limb and body there was a certain
awkwardness. He never could run as fast as the other boys, and he

always fumbled the ball in their games though he could beat them
swimming. So far in his youthful career he had not learned to dance.
The one time he had tried, his girl partner had made fun of his
awkwardness, so that ended his dancing. But Dorian was not clumsy
about his mother's home and table. He handled the dishes as daintily as
a girl, and the table was set and the food served in a very proper
manner.
"Did you get your shoes, Dorian?"
Dorian burned his fingers on a dish which was not at all hot.
"Mother, sit up; supper is ready."
They both drew up their chairs. Dorian asked the blessing, then became
unusually solicitous in helping his mother, continually talking as he did
so.
"That little Duke girl was nearly drowned in the canal, this afternoon,"
he told her, going on with the details. "She's a plucky little thing. Ten
minutes after I had her out of the canal, she was as lively as ever."
The mother liked to hear him talk, so she did not interrupt him. After
they had eaten, he forced her to take her rocking-chair while he cleared
the table and washed the few dishes. She asked no more questions
about shoes, but leaned back in her chair with half-closed eyes. Dorian
thought to give her the mint lozenges, but fearing that it might lead to
more questions, he did not.
Mrs. Trent was not old in years, but hard work had bent her back and
roughened her hands. Her face was pleasant to look upon, even if there
were some wrinkles now, and the hair was white at the temples. She
closed her eyes as if she were going to sleep.
"Now, mother, you're going to bed", said Dorian. "You have tired
yourself out with this wool picking. I thought I told you before that I
would gather what wool there was."

"But you weren't here, and I could not stand to see the wind blowing it
away. See, what a fine lot I got." She opened her bundle and displayed
her fleece.
"Well, put it away. You can't card and spin and knit it tonight."
"It will have to be washed first, you foolish boy."
Dorian got his mother to bed without further reference to shoes. He
went to his own room with a conscience not altogether easy. He lighted
his lamp, which was a good one, for he did a lot of reading by it. The
electric wires had not yet reached Greenstreet. Dorian stood looking
about his room. It was not a very large one, and somewhat sparsely
furnished. The bed seemed selfishly to take up most of the space.
Against one wall was set some home-made shelving containing books.
He had quite a library. There were books of various kinds, gathered
with no particular plan or purpose, but as means and opportunity
afforded. In one corner stood a scroll saw, now not very often used.
Pictures of a full-rigged sailing vessel and a big modern steamer hung
on the wall above his books. On another wall were three small prints,
landscapes where there were great distances with much light and
warmth. Over his bed hung an artist's conception of "Lorna Doone," a
beautiful face, framed in a mass of auburn hair, with smiling lips, and a
dreamy look in her eyes.
"That's my girl," Dorian sometimes said, pointing to this picture. "No
one can