request.

The two boys (for though Will was nearly twenty-one, she still thought of
him as a lad) had done everything in their power to make the house-place
comfortable for her. She herself, in the old days before her sorrow, had
never made a brighter fire or a cleaner hearth, ready for her husband's
return home, than now awaited her. The tea-things were all put out, and
the kettle was boiling; and the boys had calmed their grief down into a
kind of sober cheerfulness. They paid her every attention they could
think of, but received little notice on her part; she did not resist, she
rather submitted to all their arrangements; but they did not seem to
touch her heart.

When tea was ended--it was merely the form of tea that had been gone
through--Will moved the things away to the dresser. His mother leant
back languidly in her chair.

"Mother, shall Tom read you a chapter? He's a better scholar than I."

"Ay, lad!" said she, almost eagerly. "That's it. Read me the Prodigal
Son. Ay, ay, lad. Thank thee."

Tom found the chapter, and read it in the high-pitched voice which is
customary in village schools. His mother bent forward, her lips parted,
her eyes dilated; her whole body instinct with eager attention. Will sat
with his head depressed and hung down. He knew why that chapter had been
chosen; and to him it recalled the family's disgrace. When the reading
was ended, he still hung down his head in gloomy silence. But her face
was brighter than it had been before for the day. Her eyes looked
dreamy, as if she saw a vision; and by-and-by she pulled the Bible