"
"How do I help, my boy?" she asked with a sad smile, for he had said the
thing dearest to her heart.
"When I'm with you, I seem to get a hold on myself. I've always had a
strange feeling about you. I felt when I was a child that you're two
people; one that lives on some distant, lonely prairie, silent, shadowy
and terribly loving; and the other, a vocal person, affectionate, alert,
good and generous."
He paused, but she only shook her head. After a moment he continued: "I
know you aren't happy, mother, but maybe you once were--at the start."
She got to her feet, and drew herself up.
"I'm happy in your love, but all the rest--is all the rest. It isn't your
father's fault wholly. He was busy; he forgot me. Dear, dear boy, never
give up your soul to things only, keep it for people."
She was naturally straight and composed; yet as she stood there, she had
a certain lonely splendour like some soft metal burning. Among her
fellow-citizens she had place and position, but she took no lead; she was
always an isolated attachment of local enterprises. It was in her own
house where her skill and adaptability had success. She had brought into
her soul misery and martyrdom, and all martyrs are lonely and apart.
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