Henderson daily dispatch. (Henderson, N.C.) 1914-1995, 1937-11-29
rne p,sce wnere | nau rouno ner

hat. J diSmOunted and went to-
ward the clump OF white birches
where / had first seen her. l sat
on the log where we had sat to-
gether.
Not far away was the quiet pool
with it's amethystine shadows.
Now and then a bird came down
to drink, but there were few birds
in the dark forest, and for the
most part not sound broke the
stiffness.
Then all at once I heard the
brittle crackle of the needles un-
der foot. I looked and saw a tall
figure on the other side of the
pool.
It was Andy Fuller! He did not
see me, for I was hidden by the
thick growth of birches. His face
was dark, and he seemed as he
stood there to cast a sinister
shadow among those deeper shad-
ows.
He had something in his hand
which sparkled, and he was look
ing down at it. Suddenly he, lifted
his arm and flung the shining
thing into the pool. I guessed
then what I learned afterward was
the truth-that it was the pea
cock brooch which disappeared
with a CLEAN and a ripple into the
watery depths. It is probably
there now-to the wonderment of
all the little fishes!
I went back and found Mimi by
the fire, and everybody else down
for the late lunch. The mail had
come, and a telegram. The tele-
gram was from my father. My
mother was, he said, very ill.
They wanted me at once.
I came into my fathers house
as a stranger. I can not. express
the feeling which it gave me of
utter separation from all that had
made up the years I had spent
there.
The house seemed diminutive,
the trees dwarfed: nothing was as
it used to be, except the lake and
the high arches of the sky.
My mother lay in bed, a waxen
figure with silver hair. Yet the
rooms were peopled for me by
slender, energetic ghosts Of her,
restless, busy, worrying over my
little lies, tying my father up in
bingham aprons.
But now she was not restless or
busy. No matter how much she
might wish to follow the old paths,
her feet could no longer tread
them. She was often in great
pain, and hour after hour my
father would sit beside her bed,
holding her hand, and sometimes
when I passed the door I would
see him on his knees beside her.
knew then how life had knit
them together. In earlier years
their dreams may have differed,
but in their long sharing Of a COM
mon lot they had grown close in
spirit, and I realized that to my
father my mother had become once
again the girl who had led him
into high paths of duty for his
souls sake.
Outside my mothers room the
whole house bore the stamp of
Rose Drury's occupation. Her
personality pervaded everything.
The bare beauty of shining cleanli-
ness was no longer apparent, al
though it twas clean enough: it
was only that it was not so shin
ing nor so orderly. Yet there was
a certain color and glow which the
place had lacked in my mothers
time-Rose's pink sweater on
chair, the bright pink of the ging-
ham dresses which she wore, woods
out of which she was knitting an
other sweater. heaped high in
basket, a bunch of pink roses
crushed into a bowl on the center
Of the table.
The meals which she put on the
table were most generous and, I
may as well admit, more tempting
than my mother had ever served.
Our menus had been in a sense
ascetic: we had always had enough
to eat, but no time or money had
been wasted on our appetites.
Rose gave us great dishes of meat
in their own rich gravies. She
baked cakes for us--black with