Without further word his mother bathed his heated face and led him to
her bed. "Lie down and rest," she said, "you are over excited. Quiet
will help you."

He lay and looked at her as she sat quietly and gravely at her work
under the Picture. Ever since he could remember, her chair at this hour
of the day had been in that corner, and low over it had always hung,
just as it hung now, that Picture so often explained to him, "The Walk
to Emmaus." How calm and quiet his mother was; and the room, how still
and cool after that crowded street! Shutting his aching eyes he could
see it again now; the swearing mob of boys and men shoving him on, their
brutal faces and gestures, the quarrel, the blows - those he had given
and taken - he felt them again, and the burning choke of the final grip
and wrestle.

Oh, how his head throbbed and ached! It seemed as if the blood would
burst through.

He opened his eyes again. The room was growing darker. He almost forgot
his pain for a few moments, noticing how the sunlight was straightened
to a narrow lane which reached from the extreme southern end of the
window to the floor in front of his mother's chair. He watched the last
rays as they slowly left the floor and stole up her dress to her lap and
her breast, leaving all behind and below in shadow. Now they had reached
her face. It was bent over her work. Well he knew that was some
Christmas gift, may be for him, - some Christmas gift, and to-morrow was
Christmas! He looked again to see if he could discover what she was
making, but the light had left her now, and had risen to the Picture.

Queer picture that it was! What funny clothes those men wore! Those long