Here was the bed which had pillowed his dear, sunny ringlets.  Here were his favorite chair—­his desk—­his books.  In a little trunk against the wall were his toys with some of the pretty clothes made with her own fingers, in which it had been her pride to dress him when he was a wee laddie.  How she loved to finger and fondle them!

Fifteen years she had been his mother—­now this was all she had!  Somewhere in the same world with her he was living, was walking about, talking, eating, sleeping; yet he was dead to her!  Oh, if she could only know that he was happy, that he was well, that he lacked nothing in the way of creature comfort; if she could know where he was, picture him at work or in his leisure hours, it would not be so hard to bear.

But she knew nothing—­nothing—­save that he had gone to Boston.

One letter she had had from him there—­such a dear one!—­she knew it by heart.  In it he had called her “Mother” and assured her of his constant love and thought of her.  He had arrived safely, he said, and would soon be busy making his living.  Boston was a fine city and full of interest to him.  When his ship came in he was going to have her come on and pay him a visit there.  He would write again when he had anything worth telling.

Days had passed—­weeks—­and no word had come.  Had he failed to obtain employment?  Had he gone further—­to New York, perhaps, or Philadelphia?  She did not know.  Oh, if she could but know!

Was he ill?  Fear clutched her heart and made her faint.  The suspense was terrible, and she had no one to go to for sympathy—­no one.  She dared not mention her anxiety to her husband; it made him furious.  He could not stand the sound of Eddie’s name, even—­her darling, beautiful Eddie!  Her arms felt so empty they ached.

Winter was passing.  The garden that Eddie loved so dearly was coming to life.  The crocuses for which he always watched with so much interest were come and gone.  The jonquils were in bloom and the first sweet hyacinths, blue as turquoises, she had gathered and put in his room.  It cheered her to see them there.  Somehow, they made the room look more “ready” than usual—­as if he might come home that day.

He did not come, but something else did.  A letter with the Boston post-mark she had so longed to see, and a small, flat package addressed to her in his dear hand.  She broke the seal of the letter first—­she was so hungry for the sight of the familiar, “Mother dear,” and to know how he fared.

It was a short letter, but, ah, the blessed relief of knowing he was well and happy!  And prospering—­prospering famously—­for he told her he was sending her the first copy off the press of his book of poems!  It was a very little book, he said, but it was a beginning.  He felt within him that he would have much bigger and better things to show her erelong.  For the present, he was hard at work making ready for a revised and enlarged edition of his book, if one should be called for.