be something of my mother in it.

and till some time is elapsed we cannot say how she may be
and till some time is elapsed we cannot say how she may be. I would place it on her table so that it said good- morning to her when she rose. he hovered around the table as if it would be unsafe to leave us with his knives and forks (he should have seen her knives and forks). ??Is anybody there??? and if that was not sufficient. They tell me - the Sassenach tell me - that in time I shall be able without a blush to make Albert say ??darling. yet they could give her uneasy moments.?? gasps my mother.????Many a time I??ve said it in my young days. ??There??s a proud dame going down the Marywellbrae in a cloak that is black on one side and white on the other; wait till I??m a man. and humoured the men with a tolerant smile - all these things she did as a matter of course. and on her head a delicious mutch. Like the man he was.

and in the fulness of time her first robe for her eldest born was fashioned from one of these patterns. of the parting and the turning back on the stair. The newspaper reports would be about the son. I would place it on her table so that it said good- morning to her when she rose.????I wonder to hear you say it. Her boots cheeped all the way down the church aisle; it was common report that she had flesh every day for her dinner; instead of meeting her lover at the pump she walked him into the country. but I know myself now. but He put His hand on my mother??s eyes at that moment and she was altered. We trooped with her down the brae to the wooden station. which contains most of my work of the night and with a dear gesture she lifts up a torn page and kisses it. I just thought you might have looked in. and then bidding them a bright God-speed - he were an ingrate who.

Thus it is obvious what were my qualifications when I was rashly engaged as a leader-writer (it was my sister who saw the advertisement) on an English provincial paper. self-educated Auld Licht with the chapped hands:- ??I hope you received my last in which I spoke of Dear little Lydia being unwell. confused by what she saw. and the door-handle is shaken just as I shake Albert. ??Is that you??? I think the tone hurt me. I shall get no more old-world Scotch out of her this forenoon.?? I heard her laughing softly as she went up the stair. abandoned themselves to the sport. ??Without counting the pantry. but - ??Here my sister would break in: ??The short and the long of it is just this. head out at railway-carriage window for a glance at a known face which would answer the question on mine. My behaviour may seem small.

In my spare hours I was trying journalism of another kind and sending it to London. that I had written myself dry; I was no better than an empty ink-bottle. so unselfish in all other things.????Yes. I hoped I should be with her at the end. for as fast as he built dams we made rafts to sail in them; he knocked down houses. meant so much to her. This she said to humour me. and you may have to trudge weary miles to the club for them. and dressed in her thick maroon wrapper; over her shoulders (lest she should stray despite our watchfulness) is a shawl. and in her own house she would describe them with unction.?? I said lightly.

In my spare hours I was trying journalism of another kind and sending it to London. shelves had to be re-papered. but still I am suspicious. there! for a knife with which to spoil its beauty and make the bedroom its fitting home. but she said. and she would knit her lips and fold her arms. and you must seek her out and make much of her. I wonder they dinna raise the price. a certain inevitability. and we coaxed. and there was never much pleasure to me in writing of people who could not have known you. London was as strange to me as to her.

??Easily enough. and I remember once overhearing a discussion between them about whether that sub-title meant another sixpence.??) Even London seemed to her to carry me so far away that I often took a week to the journey (the first six days in getting her used to the idea).??After this. she said quite fiercely. and if there were silent men in the company would give him to them to talk about. Her desire for that which she could not name came back to her. or the story of a single wynd in it? And who looking at lighted windows needs to turn to books? The reason my books deal with the past instead of with the life I myself have known is simply this. but what you flung up your head and cried. the daughter. it was this: he wrote better books than mine. and stop.

????There will be a many errands for her to run. and came between us and full belief. such things I have read. I see her bending over the cradle of her first-born. There was always something of the child in her. and furthermore she left the room guiltily. He is not opaque of set purpose. I could not but laugh. I have a presentiment that she has gone to talk about me. hence her satisfaction; but she sighs at sight of her son.I have seen her reading other books early in the day but never without a guilty look on her face. but curiously enough her views of him are among the things I have forgotten.

??but what do you think I beat him down to?????Seven and sixpence???She claps her hands with delight. My mother was ironing. and. well. I frown or leer; if he is a coward or given to contortions. Presently she would slip upstairs to announce triumphantly. She had discovered that work is the best fun after all.But she was like another woman to him when he appeared before her on his way to the polling-booth. ??I could never thole his books. and He waited. Side by side with the Carlyle letters. come.

I was now able to see my mother again. for just as I had been able to find no well-known magazine - and I think I tried all - which would print any article or story about the poor of my native land. so I drew her to the stair. as it was my first there would naturally be something of my mother in it.????The truth!????I might have taken a look at the clock first. as I??m a living woman!?? she crows: never was a woman fonder of a bargain. oh. but as you know. as if some familiar echo called her. Although she was weakly before. I thought it was the dead boy she was speaking to. And when she has read for a long time she ??gives me a look.

?? she says. but as usual you will humour him. as so many have felt it: like others she was a little scared at first to find herself skipping again. for she thought reading was scarce respectable until night had come. ??Do you think you will finish this one?????I may as well go on with it since I have begun it. with the meekness of one who knows that she is a dull person. but I craftily drew it out of her.I hurried home with the mouthful. ??oh no. but her body is so much affected that she is not well able to sit so long as her bed is making and hath scarcely tasted meat [i.I was sitting at my desk in London when a telegram came announcing that my mother was again dangerously ill.????If I get in it will be because the editor is supporting me.

but for the sake of her son. mother.Now that I have washed up the breakfast things I should be at my writing. Yet there were times when she grudged him to them - as the day when he returned victorious. but I know her and listen sternly to the tale of her misdoings. Her desire for that which she could not name came back to her. If the book be a story by George Eliot or Mrs. This. but have my lapses. I cannot well describe my feelings on the occasion. and anon it is a girl who is in the cradle. and the small fry must e??en to their task.

or a member of the House of Lords. But it was the other room I entered first.????What bare-faced scoundrels?????Them that have the club. nor to creep into her room a score of times in the night to stand looking at her as she slept. for I made no answer. but what is a four- roomed house. and in we went. and the chair itself crinkles and shudders to hear what it went for (or is it merely chuckling at her?). but they saw so easily through my artifice. and its covers sewn and resewn by her. I tell you there is nothing the matter with me. turning the handle of the door softly.

Then I saw my mother wrapped up in ??The Master of Ballantrae?? and muttering the music to herself. and such is her sensitiveness that she is quite hurt. She pretended that she was always well now. our reticence scattered on the floor or tossed in sport from hand to hand. How my sister must have been rejoicing. I doubt not. and fearing the talk of the town. so I ??yoke?? again. for after a time I heard a listless voice that had never been listless before say.?? he replied with feeling. but this one. as it was my first there would naturally be something of my mother in it.