James T. Boulton

"My father hasn't come," said Annie plaintively, giving
way at last. But her mother was primed with courage:

"Never mind. They'll bring him when he does come --
like a log." She meant there would be no scene. "And he
may sleep on the floor till he wakes himself. I know he'll not
go to work to-morrow after this!"*

The children had their hands and faces wiped with the flannel,
and were undressed on the hearthrug. They were very quiet.
When they had put on their nightdresses, they kneeled down,
and the girl hid her face in her mother's lap, and the boy put his
face in his mother's skirt at the side, and they said their prayers,
the boy mumbling. She looked down at them, at the brown
silken bush of intertwining curls in the nape of the girl's neck,
and the little black head of the boy, and in front of her eyes
shone love and pity, and close behind pity stood anger, with
shadowy hate, like a phantom, and scorn, glittering and danger-
ous; all these on the darkened stage of the mother's soul, with
pity and love in front. The children hid their faces in her
skirts, and were full of comfort and safety, and they prayed to
her, for she was the God of their prayers. Then she lighted
the candle and took them to bed.

When she came down, the room was strangely empty, with
a tension of expectancy. The mother took up her sewing and
stitched for some time without raising her head. Meantime
her anger was accumulating. She broke the spell sharply at
last, and looked up. It was ten minutes to eight. She sat
staring at the pudding in the fender, and at the saucepan to

26