as if frightened that he had sent for it. Jealous Tommy, suddenly
deprived of his mother's hand, cried, "It's true what Shovel says, you
don't not love me never again; you jest loves that little limmer!"

"Na, na," the mother answered, passionate at last, "she can never be to
me what you hae been, my laddie, for you came to me when my hame was in
hell, and we tholed it thegither, you and me."'

This bewildered though it comforted him. He thought his mother might be
speaking about the room in which they had lived until six months ago,
when his father was put into the black box, but when he asked her if
this were so, she told him to sleep, for she was dog-tired. She always
evaded him in this way when he questioned her about his past, but at
times his mind would wander backwards unbidden to those distant days,
and then he saw flitting dimly through them the elusive form of a child.
He knew it was himself, and for moments he could see it clearly, but
when he moved a step nearer it was not there. So does the child we once
were play hide and seek with us among the mists of infancy, until one
day he trips and falls into the daylight. Then we seize him, and with
that touch we two are one. It is the birth of self-consciousness.

Hitherto he had slept at the back of his mother's bed, but to-night she
could not have him there, the place being occupied, and rather sulkily
he consented to lie crosswise at her feet, undressing by the feeble fire
and taking care, as he got into bed, not to look at the usurper. His
mother watched him furtively, and was relieved to read in his face that
he had no recollection of ever having slept at the foot of a bed before.
But soon after he fell asleep he awoke, and was afraid to move lest his
father should kick him. He opened his eyes stealthily, and this was
neither the room nor the bed he had expected to see.