Corney could not keep his mother out of his heart now! She thought there were ten things she could do for him now to one she could have done for him before! When, oh when would he appear, that her heart might go out to meet him!

—Forty —

The Return

The day came. It was fine in London. The invalid was carefully wrapped up for the journey. Hester, the major and Miss Dasomma followed the young couple to the station. There the latter received the poor little wife, and when the train was out of sight, took her home with her.

The major who got into the next carriage, at every stop ran to see if anything was wanted. When they reached the station, he got on the box of the carriage the mother had sent to meet them.

Thus Hester bore her lost sheep home—in little triumph and much anxiety. When they stopped at the door no one was on the outlook for them. The hall was not lighted and the door was locked.

The major rang the bell. Before the door was opened Hester had got down and stood waiting. The major took the youth in his arms and carried him into the dining-room, so weary that he could scarcely open his eyes. There seemed no light in the house, except the candle the man brought when he came to open the door.

Corney begged to be put to bed. “I wish Amy was here!” he murmured. Hester and the major were talking together.

Hester hurried from room to room and returned in a moment.

“I was sure of it,” she whispered to the major. “There is a glorious fire in his room and everything is ready for him. The house is my father, but the room is my mother.”

The major carried him easily up the stair—he had become so thin and light. The moment they were past the door of her room, out came the mother into the corridor, gliding pale and noiselessly after them. Hester looked around and saw her, but her mother laid a finger on her lips, and continued to follow without a word.

When they were in Corney’s room, she came to the door, looked in, and watched them, but did not enter. Cornelius did not open his eyes. The major laid him down on the sofa near the fire. A gleam of it fell on his face. The mother drew a sharp quick breath and pressed her hands against her heart—there was his sin upon his face, branding him that men might know him.

But therewith came a fresh rush from the inexhaustible fountain of mother-love. She would have taken him into her anew, with all his sin and pain and sorrow, to clear away in herself brand and pollution, and bear him anew—even as God bears our griefs, and carries our sorrows, destroys our wrongs, taking their consequences on himself, and gives us the new birth from above. Her whole wounded heart seemed to go out to him in one trembling sigh, as she turned to go back to the room where her husband sat with hopeless gaze fixed on the fire.