"It _was_ funny," he thought, "the way I farmed out those two hundred
blocks to the other boys. Why, here's a piece of one of those little
striped waists I used to wear, and there's a piece of Rob's checked
shirt and Rhoda's apron. I wouldn't have imagined that I could have
recognized them after all these years, but they look as natural as
life. And this,"--his finger was resting on a square of dotted blue
calico,--"mother wore this. My! the times I've hung on to that dress,
following her around the house, bothering her to stop and cover a
ball, or make me a marble bag, or untangle my fishing-lines. And she
always stopped so patiently."

He was back in the sunny old kitchen, with its spicy smell of
gingerbread and pies, hot from the Saturday baking. Outside, the snow
clung to the trees, but the wintry sun shining through the shelf of
yellow chrysanthemums by the window, made dancing summer shadows on
the clean white floor. He was looking at the quilt through blurred
eyes now. How many, many nights she had spread it over him and tucked
him snugly in, and softly kissed his eyelids down, before she carried
away the lamp. It came over him all in a swift rush, with a sudden
cold sense of desolation, that she could never do that again! never
any more! The light had been taken away, never to be brought back.

Big fellow as he was, he dropped on his knees by the bed, and buried
his face in the old quilt, with a long, quivering sob. He had been
occupied with so many things in the new experiences of his college
life that he had not missed her for the last few months: but the sight
of the old quilt brought her so plainly before him that the longing to
have her back was almost intolerable.