DECEMBER. 321 



she has lived alone, with not a tie to the world 

 but her anxiety for a prodigal son, whose life 

 has long threatened to prove her death. And 

 now that she is become thin and feeble, and 

 expects no journey except the short one to the 

 neighbouring churchyard, comes an epistle from 

 her son, written by a stranger-hand, to say that 

 he is dying in a far-distant place, and implores 

 her pardon and blessing. Oh, maternal love ! 

 how strong art thou, even in the very weakness 

 of nature and the extremity of old age ! It is 

 seventy miles off where her son now lies, but 

 she thinks of nothing less than going to him. 

 Not go ! — not try to see him, and to comfort 

 him, and to know exactly how his mind is at the 

 last! By the help of God she will, though! — 

 and early on the following morning her little, 

 solitary house is shut up — door and window- 

 shutter carefully closed ; and, with her key in 

 her pocket, and with her red cloak and black 

 bonnet on, she is setting out. The neighbours 

 come out in wondering kindness to bid her 

 good-bye; but there is more offence to her in 

 their remarks on her son than comfort in the 

 expression of their pity, and she moves quietly 

 away. And that poor old creature is bound on 

 a journey of seventy miles across the country, 

 and without the expectation of an hour's car- 

 riage. She takes no stick in her hand, for she 



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