called for Lew. He did not answer. Suddenly I just knew he wasn't there.
I knew that he was far, far away."

Ann Leighton did not try to reason against instinct. She softly rocked
Natalie to and fro, her pale eyes fixed on the setting sun. Gradually
the sunset awoke in her mind a stabbing memory. Here on this bench she
had sat, Natalie, a baby, in her lap, and in the shelter of her arms
little Lewis and--and Shenton, her boy. By yonder rail she had stood
with her unconscious boy in her arms, and day had suddenly ceased as
though beyond the edge of the world somebody had put out the light
forever. Her pale eyes grew luminous. The unaccustomed tears welled up
in them and trickled down the cheeks that had known so long a drought.
They rained on Natalie's head.

"Mother!" cried Natalie, looking up--"Mother!" Then she buried her face
again in Ann's bosom, and together they sobbed out all the oppressing
pain and grief of life's heavy moment. Not by strength alone, but also
by frailty, do mothers hold the hearts of their children. Natalie,
hearing and feeling her mother sob, passed beyond the bourn of
generations and knew Ann and herself as one in an indivisible, quivering
humanity.

Mammy's chair stopped rocking. She listened; then she got up and came
out on the veranda. Her eyes fell upon mother and daughter huddled
together in the dusk. She hovered over them. Her loose clothes made her
seem ample, almost stolid.

"Wha' fo' you chilun's crying?" she demanded.

"We're _not_ crying," sobbed Natalie.