“Yes! but to no purpose.  I cannot say that she would even admit an argument on the subject.  She seemed to have an invincible repugnance to the idea of exposing him to the remarks of other boys on his peculiar position.”

“They need never know of it.  Besides, sooner or later, he must step out of his narrow circle, and encounter remark and scorn.”

“True,” said Mr. Benson mournfully.  “And you may depend upon it, if it really is the best for Leonard, she will come round to it by-and-by.  It is almost extraordinary to see the way in which her earnest and most unselfish devotion to this boy’s real welfare leads her to right and wise conclusions.”

“I wish I could tame her so as to let me meet her as a friend.  Since the baby was born, she comes to see Jemima.  My wife tells me, that she sits and holds it soft in her arms, and talks to it as if her whole soul went out to the little infant.  But if she hears a strange footstep on the stair, what Jemima calls the ‘wild-animal look’ comes back into her eyes, and she steals away like some frightened creature.  With all that she has done to redeem her character, she should not be so timid of observation.

“You may well say ‘with all that she has done!’ We of her own household hear little or nothing of what she does.  If she wants help, she simply tells us how and why; but if not—­perhaps because it is some relief to her to forget for a time the scenes of suffering in which she has been acting the part of comforter, and perhaps because there always was a shy, sweet reticence about her—­we never should know what she is and what she does, except from the poor people themselves, who would bless her in words if the very thought of her did not choke them with tears.  Yet, I do assure you, she passes out of all this gloom, and makes sunlight in our house.  We are never so cheerful as when she is at home.  She always had the art of diffusing peace, but now it is positive cheerfulness.  And about Leonard; I doubt if the wisest and most thoughtful schoolmaster could teach half as much directly, as his mother does unconsciously and indirectly every hour that he is with her.  Her noble, humble, pious endurance of the consequences of what was wrong in her early life seems expressly fitted to act upon him, whose position is (unjustly, for he has done no harm) so similar to hers.”

“Well!  I suppose we must leave it alone for the present.  You will think me a hard practical man when I own to you, that all I expect from Leonard’s remaining a home-bird is that, with such a mother, it will do him no harm.  At any rate, remember my offer is the same for a year—­two years hence, as now.  What does she look forward to making him into, finally?”

“I don’t know.  The wonder comes into my mind sometimes; but never into hers, I think.  It is part of her character—­part perhaps of that which made her what she was—­that she never looks forward, and seldom back.  The present is enough for her.”