as sobbing her heart out still. Perhaps he would never see her again.
The path he had chosen to follow might take him over seas and through
vast perils; indeed, it must do so if the success he desired was to be
won. He felt something almost like a catch in his throat as he turned
away and crossed the sleeping river. He glanced down through dreaming
glades and saw one motionless silver spot on the dark waters beneath the
alders. Sentiment was at its flood just then, and he spoke a few words
under his breath. "'Tis thicky auld Muscovy duck, roostin' on his li'l
island; poor lone devil wi' never a mate to fight for nor friend to swim
along with. Worse case than mine, come to think on it!" Then an emotion,
rare enough with him, vanished, and he sniffed the night air and felt
his heart beat high at thoughts of what lay ahead.

Will returned home, made fast the outer door, took off his boots, and
went softly up a creaking stair. Loud and steady music came from the
room where John Grimbal lay, and Blanchard smiled when he heard it.
"'Tis the snore of a happy man with money in his purse," he thought.
Then he stood by his mother's door, which she always kept ajar at night,
and peeped in upon her. Damaris Blanchard slumbered with one arm on the
coverlet, the other behind her head. She was a handsome woman still, and
looked younger than her eight-and-forty years in the soft ambient light.
"Muneshine do make dear mother so purty as a queen," said Will to
himself. And he would never wish her "good-by," perhaps never see her
again. He hastened with light, impulsive step into the room, thinking
just to kiss the hand on the bed, but his mother stirred instantly and
cried, "Who's theer?" with sleepy voice. Then she sat up and listened--a
fair, grey-eyed woman in an old-fashioned night-cap. Her son had
vanished before her eyes were opened, and now she turned and yawned and
slept again.