My mother was looking out for me when I reached home the next morning. I
had taken a car from the pier-head to avoid meeting any acquaintances;
and hers was almost the first familiar face I saw. It was pallid with
the sickly hue of a confirmed disease, and her eyes were much sunken;
but she ran across the room to meet me. I was afraid to touch her,
knowing how a careless movement might cause her excruciating pain; but
she was oblivious of every thing save my return, and pressed me closer
and closer in her arms, with all her failing strength, while I leaned my
face down upon her dear head, unable to utter a word.
"God is very good to me," sobbed my mother.
"Is He?" I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears, so forced and
altered it was.
"Very, very good," she repeated. "He has brought you back to me."
"Never to leave you again, mother," I said--"never again!"
"No; you will never leave me alone again here," she whispered. "Oh, how
I have missed you, my boy!"
I made her sit down on the sofa, and sat beside her, while she caressed
my hand with her thin and wasted fingers.