The Catholic bulletin. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1911-1995, 1915-01-02

+
drugged; that work, sleep, her several
frugal pleasures, were all SO many mar
cotic influences, that her dream OF the
future was drug, too.
Something, shadowy and unreal, had
confronted her with reality 1t was
the queerest thing in all the world
it was the ghost of a song
The younger son had gone out of
his mothers life because she had put
him out. Now he had come back, If
only in thought. That vague, uneasy
presence of his was disturbing, espe.
cially at Christmas, which was always
called the time of peace 1t was like
that other self, which, in all her plans,
| the woman had been content to reckon
without, but which, newly aroused
from it's death-like coma, was begin
ming to stir and, weakly, assert itself
She was acutely conscious of the pos
sibility of struggle, in which the con-
testants resolved themselves into, on
| the one side, son and mother, on the
other She closed her eyes,
as if not to see. The needles trem-
bled and lay still.
Well, the battle would be against
her; her real, honest, unshackled self
What were the odds? Two shadows
summoned by a spirit voice to meet
a substance, timid, and reluctant for
the fight-were the Vaccinations OF
a ghost to lay in ruins all the careful
building Of her most careful years?
| Her nearness to that other self
startled her. 1t was torture to sit
there with that something that could
look long and steadfastly at her, and
say, 'You are a coward" 1t seemed
almost impersonal as it looked and
challenged and half derided. 'What
have you gained?" it asked IF any.
thing, does it matter? Does it count
in the infinite amount? Has ii
brought you even the shred of real
happiness?"
away! away" she tried to eXpostu.
late: "You are not real! Leave me
let me go my own way"
The cry was 'let," not Il will" The
other self was stronger now, she knew,
than the one that wanted to say mo.
She had starved the mother in her
but it had not died. Harry was only
a baby, and he no longer needed her
Could she be mother to a man?
She found herself considering
There was still time to take up the
life of service and to tell that other
Mother that, after all, perhaps she
might have been wrong. Had not her
tender heart suffered, too, and with
an intensity that hers had never
known? 1t was because he had nc
mother that Jimmy was bad, starving
perhaps dead. Dead. She shuddered
Was it worse to have no mother than
no child?
She laughed with an odd little CUR.
gle. The dainty garment slipped to
the floor, to catch what dust it might
The faded woman leaned on the table
and buried her face in her hands. She
did not heed that the fire was out
or that, through a chink in the win.
dow, the wind blew in piercingly cold
An hour might have passed-she
was taking no account of time-when
a quick, loud rap on the outer door
made her lift her head. She rose and
left the room with mingled expectancy
and hesitation. Opening the door, she
perceived the postman's lantern, and
her heart bounded Ehen he put a thin
blue envelope into her hand. Taking
it into the parlour, she read the ad
dress in handwriting she had not seen
for seven years. With shaking fingers
she tore it open. Not dead, then
whatever else had happened!
Holding the half sheet close to the
lamp, close to the holly berries that
had meant an unWelcome Christmas
the mother read the few scraWled
lines:
Dear Mother,-I am sailing fol
Philadelphia on the 28th-working my
passage. This is goodbye hardly
think you will hear from me again
If make anything of my life / may
find friends in the new country; il
not, what matter Il few years more OF
less? Please forgive me for writing
but it is Christmastide, and | cannot
help myself. Goodbye. JAMES,
For a minute everything went din
before her eyes. But she quickly raj
lied, finding of a sudden the pressing
need for action.
| GOod-bye-On the 2Sth--deaI
mother; the words jumbled together
in her brain. They seemed to be
stumbling over one another in theil
haste to demand her help.
Good-bye-no, not that. On the
28th-ah, thank heaven there was yet
time! The telegraph office did moi
close till eight; she could send mes
sage that very evening. There was
his address, scrubbed on the back OF
the sheet, as if the idea of sending
it had been an afterthought. He had
feared she would ignore him; the
thought was painful, but she deserved
to suffer.
Dear mother That was best of all
That meant peace, joy, the end of all
things past, the beginning of all tC
come. Her eyes sought the words
again, lingering, hungry, on each clum
sy letter. The scalding tears falling
ON them added nothing in the form