Year: 1876

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woman sits working in the porch.


A tiny cottage, in garden stocked
only with fruit and vegetables, save for
the hardy creepers clinging to the porch.
But then their blossoms gleam as white
and pure as any rare exotics, and the
dark leaves move softly in the fairy light,
as the breeze nestles there, after its
fight across the heath from that far line
of brilliancy which, though but rib
bon's width, is the broad sea flashing in
the sun. A slight, pale woman, wear
ing widows cap upon her smooth
brown hair, but with such look of love
and longing on her face that she too has
beauty which it is good to look upon.
Small and isolated as the cottage may
be, it is home of love and peace, and
plain and quiet as the countrywoman
looks, she has wealth of warm affec-
ton in her heart.


AS she sits there alone, Mary Sullivan
is dreaming the old dreams which have
cheered her ten years OF widowhood-
bright but never impossible dreams of
the future of her only son-and she is
glancing backward, too, over her own
life, wondering little, just little, if
many women of her age have seen no
more of the world than she, who has
not spent one night of all her life
nor ever wished to do so-beyond this
village where her husband has been
schoolmaster. Is it to be always so3 A
steadfast light comes into her eyes, and
her quiet lips break into a smile, made
beautiful by proud and loving trust
"That shall be left to Davy," she says,
uttering softly the one name which now
means all the world to her. "His
choice will be my choice"


From the porch were Mary sits she
can catch a glimpse, through the trees,
Of the road along which the stage coach
daily passes. This spot she is watching
eagerly, and when the four horses come
within sight at last, she drops her knit
ting and rises. Nervously drawing her
hand across her strained, glad eyes, she
turns and enters the cottage, as If she
dare not wait those few minutes which
will bring the coach into sight again close
TO the garden gate.


Tea is laid for two in the pleasant lit
tie kitchen, and the table-though it
bears upon its snowy cloth no luxuries
beyond homemade cakes and fresh-laid
eggs-has quite a festive look. The
mother stands and gazes round her with
q smile. Is there nothing more she can
bring for Davya Her hands are clasped
together, and her breath is quickening,
for she knows that any moment now her
boy may rush in, past that line of sun
shine at the open door. But she does
not know how intently she is listening
for his footsteps upon the gravel, nor
how her face brightens when he comes
in at last.


"Mother -


"Oh, Davy, Davy!"


The greeting bursts from the hearts Of
both, in that first moment then the
boys lips are clinging to his mothers,
and her arms hold him in that entire
love which widowed mother so often
lavishes upon an only son.


The meal, which she has prepared with
loving hands, is over and the mother
and her boy SIT together in their favor
ite corner Of the porch, while the sun
sets far away across the sea.


"Four whole weeks of idleness, and
Of home and you, mother" David says.
at seems too good to be true"


"But you like school, Davyi" Mrs.
Sullivan asks wistfully. "You are hap
py theref"


Happys oh, yes and getting on
capitally. OF course / try to do that,
mother, as grandfather urged it 30 when
be condescended to put me in this
school. Perhaps he will help me little
even when the five years are over.
will soon rise, if he gives me a start,
after this promised school term"


"And il he does not, this education
is great help, Davy. You will be
II when you leave the college, and
clever, and aide to do anything"


"Anything-everything, mother, as
serts the boy, softly drawing her arm
about his neck. "I shall be man, and
you shall never want anything again.
Ysu shall have large house and gar
den, and I shall come home to you
every evening from myoffice-where 1
hall earn the money, you know. It
mast be near London. because men don't
get rich except in London, 1 expect.
Should you like it, mother r.


"You have made up your mind to be
rich, Davyi"


"Only," the boy answers, his eyes
upon his mothers face, "only Just rich
enough TO make you comfortable and
happy, mother F; that You may never