“’There is a happy land,
Where parting is unknown —­’”

She broke off and sat down and put her face in her hands and wept.

“Oh Lord! —­ oh good Lord! —­ I wish I was there! —­ Be still Karen —­ that’s very wicked —­ wait, wait.  ’They shall not be ashamed that wait for him,’ he said, —­ They will not be ashamed,” she repeated, looking up, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.  “I will wait.  But oh! —­ I wisht I had patience!  I want to get straight out of trouble, —­ I do.  Not yet, Karen, —­ not yet.  ’When he giveth quietness, then who can make trouble?’ That’s it —­ that’s my way.”

She went about her business and quietly finished it.

It had long been done, and the afternoon was wearing well on, when Mrs. Landholm came into the kitchen again.  Karen had taken care of the children meanwhile.  But where was Winthrop?  The mother, now quite herself, bethought her of him.  Karen knew he was not about the house.  But Mrs. Landholm saw that one of the big barn doors was open, and crossed over to it.  A small field lay between that and the house.  The great barn floor was quite empty, as she entered, except of hay and grain, with which the sides were tightly filled up to the top; the ends were neatly dressed off; the floor left clean and bare.  It oddly and strongly struck her, as she saw it, the thought of the hands that had lately been so busy there; the work left, the hands gone; and for a few moments she stood absolutely still, feeling and putting away the idea that made her heart ache.  She had a battle to fight before she was mistress of herself and could speak Winthrop’s name.  Nobody answered; and scolding herself for the tone of her voice, Mrs. Landholm spoke again.  A little rustling let her know that she was heard; and presently Winthrop made his appearance from below or from some distant corner behind the hay, and came to meet her.  He could not command his face to his mother’s eyes, and sorrow for Will for a moment was half forgotten in sorrow for him.  As they met she put both hands upon his shoulders, and said wistfully, “My son?” —­ But that little word silenced them both.  It was only to throw their arms about each other and hide their faces in each other’s neck, and cry strange tears; tears that are drawn from the heart’s deepest well.  Slight griefs flow over the surface, with fury perhaps; but the purest and the sweetest waters are drawn silently.

Winthrop was the first to recover himself, and was kissing his mother with manly quietness before she could raise her head at all.  When she did, it was to return his kisses, first on one cheek and then on the other and then on his forehead, parting the hair from it with both hands for the purpose.  It seemed as if she would have spoken, but she did not, then, not in words.

“My boy,” she said at last, “you have too hard measure laid on you!”

“No, mother —­ I don’t think it so; —­ there is nothing to make me sorry in that.”