James T. Boulton

"Are you at that brook?" she asked sternly.

For answer the child showed himself before the raspberry-
canes that rose like whips towards alders. He was a small,
sturdy boy of five, and he stood quite still, like some "farouche"
creature.

"Oh!" said the mother, conciliated. "I thought you were
down at that wet brook--and you remember what I told
you----"

The boy did not move or answer.

"Come, come on in," she said more gently, "it's getting
dark and cold--and listen, there's your grandfather's engine
coming down the line!"

The lad came slowly forward, with resentful, taciturn
movement. He was dressed in trousers and waistcoat of cloth
that was too thick and hard for the size of the garments. They
were evidently cut down from a man's clothes. He wore no coat,
and his mother looked at his little flannelette shirt-sleeves as
she waited for him to precede her up the path.

"You'll be catching cold, out at nightfall without your
jacket," she said.

As they went slowly towards the house he tore at the ragged
pink locks of the pale chrysanthemums and dropped the petals
in handfuls along the path.

"Don't do that--it does look nasty," said his mother. He
refrained, and she, suddenly pitiful, broke off a twig with three
or four small, wan flowers and held them against her face.
When they reached the yard her hand hesitated, and instead of
throwing the flower away, she pushed it in her apron band.
Mother and boy stood at the foot of the wooden steps looking
across the bay of lines at the passing home of the miners. The

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