“ After all,” she said within herself, “if the land were nationalised, Edgar and Paul and I would be just the same.” So she waited for the youth to come back to her.
He was studying for his painting. He loved to sit at home, alone with his mother, at night, working and working. She sewed or read. Then, looking up from his task, he would rest his eyes for a moment on her face, that was bright with living warmth, and he returned gladly to his work.
“ I can do my best things when you sit there in your rocking-chair, mother,” he said.
“ I’m sure!” she exclaimed, sniffing with mock scepticism. But she felt it was so, and her heart quivered with brightness. For many hours she sat still, slightly conscious of him labouring away, whilst she worked or read her book. And he, with all his soul’
