pay her son's schooling. But a storekeeper in the village liked this
little bright boy and sent him to school. And he went on through the
higher schooling, became a physician, and began his practice in London.
He became skilled, and then famous, and then wealthy.

He remembered his dear old mother, of course. He sent her money, and
fabrics for dresses, and wrote her. But for a long time, in the busy
absorption of his life, he had not been to see her. And the dear old
mother in the little cottage in the country lived in the sweet
consciousness that her son was a great physician up in the great London.
He was her chief topic of conversation. When the neighbours were in she
would always talk of her son, her Laddie, she called him.

"He's so good to me, my Laddie is. He sends me money. I put it in the
bank. He sends me cloth for dresses; it's quite too good for a plain
body like me. And he writes me letters, such good letters, wonderful
letters. But he's so busy up there, that he hasn't been to see me for a
long time now. You know he's a great doctor now, and he has great skill,
and there are so many needing him. And he's no time at all, even for
himself, I expect. But"--she would always finish her talk as they sat
over the tea by saying, half to herself, really more to herself than to
the little group, with a half-repressed longing sigh, "but, I wish, I
just _wish_ I could _see_ my _Laddie_."

Then some changes took place on the estate. And the cottage where she
had lived so long must be given up. And the dear old woman had to make
new plans. And she cudgeled her old head, and thought, and at last she
said to herself, "I know what I'll do. I'll go-up to London, and I'll
live with Laddie. He'll be so glad to have me." And bright-coloured
visions flitted through her mind, as she sat over her tea by the open