gift of humor, or she wouldn’t have thought herself a sinner and besought Heaven to forgive sins she never committed.  She used to weep over the Fifty-first Psalm, take courage from the Thirty-seventh, and when she hadn’t enough food for her body feed her spirit on the Twenty-third.  She didn’t know that it is women like her who manage to make and keep the earth worth while.  This timid and modest soul had the courage of a soldier and the patience of a martyr under the daily scourgings inflicted upon the sensitive by biting poverty.  Peter might very well have received far less from a brilliant and beautiful mother than he received from the woman whose only gifts and graces were such as spring from a loving, unselfish, and pure heart.

For Peter’s sake she fought while she had strength to fight, enduring all things, hoping all things.  She didn’t even know she was sacrificing herself, because, as Emma Campbell said, “Miss Maria’s jes’ natchelly all mother.”  But of a sudden, the winter that Peter was turning twelve, the tide of battle went against her.  The needle-pricked, patient fingers dropped their work.  She said apologetically, “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’m too sick to stay up any longer.”  Nobody guessed how slight was her hold upon life.  When the neighbors came in, after the kindly Carolina custom, she was cheerful enough, but quiet.  But then, Maria Champneys was always quiet.

There came a day when she was unusually quiet, even for her.  Toward dusk the neighbor who had watched with her went home.  At the door she said hopefully: 

“You’ll be better in the morning.”

“Yes, I’ll be better in the morning,” the sick woman repeated.  After a while Emma Campbell, who had been looking after the house, went away to her cabin across the cove.  Peter and his mother were alone.

It was a darkish, gusty night, and a small fire burned in the open fireplace.  Shadows danced on the walls, and every now and then the wind came and tapped at the windows impatiently.  On the closed sewing-machine an oil lamp burned, turned rather low.  Peter sat in a rocking-chair drawn close to his mother’s bedside and dozed fitfully, waking to watch the face on the pillow.  It was very quiet there in the poor room, with the clock ticking, and the soft sound of the settling log.

Just before dawn Peter replenished the fire, moving carefully lest he disturb his mother.  But when he turned toward the bed again she was wide awake and looking at him intently.  Peter ran to her, kissed her cheek, and held her hand in his.  Her fingers were cold, and he chafed them between his palms.

“Peter,” said she, very gently, “I’ve got to go, my dear.”  There was no fear in her.  The child looked at her piteously, his eyes big and frightened in his pale face.

“And now I’m at the end,” said she bravely, “I’m not afraid to leave you, Peter.  You are a brave child, and a good child.  You couldn’t be dishonorable, or a coward, or a liar, or unkind, to save your life.  You will always be gentle, and generous, and just.  When one is where I am to-night, that is all that really matters.  Nothing but goodness counts.”