Hills of the Shatemuc | Page 9

and put her face in her hands and wept.
"Oh Lord! -- oh good Lord! -- I wish I was there! -- Be still Karen --
that's very wicked -- wait, wait. 'They shall not be ashamed that wait
for him,' he said, -- They will not be ashamed," she repeated, looking
up, while the tears streamed down her cheeks. "I will wait. But oh! -- I
wisht I had patience! I want to get straight out of trouble, -- I do. Not
yet, Karen, -- not yet. 'When he giveth quietness, then who can make
trouble?' That's it -- that's my way."
She went about her business and quietly finished it.
It had long been done, and the afternoon was wearing well on, when
Mrs. Landholm came into the kitchen again. Karen had taken care of
the children meanwhile. But where was Winthrop? The mother, now
quite herself, bethought her of him. Karen knew he was not about the
house. But Mrs. Landholm saw that one of the big barn doors was open,
and crossed over to it. A small field lay between that and the house.
The great barn floor was quite empty, as she entered, except of hay and
grain, with which the sides were tightly filled up to the top; the ends
were neatly dressed off; the floor left clean and bare. It oddly and
strongly struck her, as she saw it, the thought of the hands that had
lately been so busy there; the work left, the hands gone; and for a few
moments she stood absolutely still, feeling and putting away the idea
that made her heart ache. She had a battle to fight before she was
mistress of herself and could speak Winthrop's name. Nobody
answered; and scolding herself for the tone of her voice, Mrs.
Landholm spoke again. A little rustling let her know that she was heard;
and presently Winthrop made his appearance from below or from some
distant corner behind the hay, and came to meet her. He could not
command his face to his mother's eyes, and sorrow for Will for a
moment was half forgotten in sorrow for him. As they met she put both
hands upon his shoulders, and said wistfully, "My son?" -- But that
little word silenced them both. It was only to throw their arms about
each other and hide their faces in each other's neck, and cry strange
tears; tears that are drawn from the heart's deepest well. Slight griefs

flow over the surface, with fury perhaps; but the purest and the sweetest
waters are drawn silently.
Winthrop was the first to recover himself, and was kissing his mother
with manly quietness before she could raise her head at all. When she
did, it was to return his kisses, first on one cheek and then on the other
and then on his forehead, parting the hair from it with both hands for
the purpose. It seemed as if she would have spoken, but she did not,
then, not in words.
"My boy," she said at last, "you have too hard measure laid on you!"
"No, mother -- I don't think it so; -- there is nothing to make me sorry
in that."
"Will has got his wish," she observed presently.
"Don't you approve of it mother?"
"Yes --" she said, but as if there were many a thought before and
behind.
"_Don't_ you approve of it, mother?" Winthrop asked quickly.
"Yes, yes -- I do, -- in itself; but you know there is one wish before all
others in my mind, for him and for you, Winthrop."
He said nothing.
"Come," she said a moment after more cheerfully, "we must go in and
see how cosy and sociable we can make ourselves alone. We must
practise," -- for next winter, she was going to say, but something
warned her to stop. Winthrop turned away his face, though he answered
manfully.
"Yes mother -- I must just go over to the bank field and see what Sam
Doolittle has been at; and I've got to cut some wood; then I'll be in."
"Will you be back by sundown?"

"I'll not be long after."
The mother gave a look towards the sun, already very near the high
western horizon, and another after Winthrop who was moving off at a
good pace; and then slowly walked back to the house, one hand
clasping its fellow in significant expression.
Karen was sitting in her clean kitchen with little Winifred on her knees,
and singing to her in a very sweet Methodist tune,
"There fairer flowers than Eden's bloom, Nor sin nor sorrow know.
Blest seats! -- through rude and stormy seas, I onward press to you."
The mother stooped to take up the child.
"What put that into your