The girls looked at her. Never in their lives, they thought, had they been
so thoroughly interested in anything as they were in the secret sorrow of
this gentle old lady, the sorrow that brought that strange cloud of
unhappiness every time she mentioned this son of hers who had run away.

"He must have been a pretty ungrateful sort," thought Mollie resentfully,
"to have run away from a mother who loved him like that."

Once more the old lady drew her eyes from the window and fixed them on the
circle of eager young faces.

"I suppose young things like you couldn't be expected to understand," she
went on, "and yet perhaps you'll be interested more than other folks,
'count of your having met so many young boys."

"Oh, we are interested," they cried in chorus, at which the old woman's
face lighted up and she went on with more cheerfulness.

"Well, to begin with," she said, "we lived way at t'other end o' the
world. Danestown, it was called, and my husband--better man never
breathed--died when my little boy was only four years old. I wasn't so
young any more, for Willie was the youngest--the others had all died when
they was babies--and Willie's pa and me was getting along in years when
he come to us--the dearest, sweetest, prettiest baby you ever set your
eyes on.

"Well, we had managed to save some little money, though 'twasn't over much
at best, and with me workin' on the farm week days and Sundays, we managed
to get along pretty well. An' I was savin' pennies--" Here the old voice