his father's and mother's bedroom. The door of each of these stood
ajar, and some of the warmth of the stove on one side and of the
grate on the other dried and tempered the atmosphere.

His mother sat in her place at the head of the table, quietly
waiting for him, and still holding in one hand the partially eaten
biscuit As he took his seat, she rose, and, walking listlessly to
the kitchen door, made a listless request of one of the two negro
women. When the coffee had been brought in, standing, she poured
out a cup, sweetened, stirred, and tasted it, and putting the spoon
into it, placed it before him. Then she resumed her seat (and the
biscuit) and looked on, occasionally scrutinizing his face, with an
expression perhaps the most tragic that can ever be worn by
maternal eyes: the expression of a lowly mother who has given birth
to a lofty son, and who has neither the power to understand him,
nor the grace to realize her own inferiority.

She wore, as usual, a dress of plain mourning, although she had not
the slightest occasion to mourn--at least, from the matter of
death. In the throat of this was caught a large, thin, oval-shaped
breastpin, containing a plait of her own and her husband's hair,
braided together; and through these there ran a silky strand cut
from David's head when an infant, and long before the parents
discovered how unlike their child was to themselves. This
breastpin, with the hair of the three heads of the house
intertwined, was the only symbol in all the world of their harmony
or union.

Around her shoulders she had thrown, according to her wont, a home-
knit crewel shawl of black and purple. Her hair, thick and straight