In the Days of the Comet

Dear heart!  There remained for her but a very brief while in this world that had been renewed.  I did not know how short that time would be, but the little I could do—­perhaps after all it was not little to her—­to atone for the harshness of my days of wrath and rebellion, I did.  I took care to be constantly with her, for I perceived now her curious need of me.  It was not that we had ideas to exchange or pleasures to share, but she liked to see me at table, to watch me working, to have me go to and fro.  There was no toil for her any more in the world, but only such light services as are easy and pleasant for a worn and weary old woman to do, and I think she was happy even at her end.

She kept to her queer old eighteenth century version of religion, too, without a change.  She had worn this particular amulet so long it was a part of her.  Yet the Change was evident even in that persistence.  I said to her one day, “But do you still believe in that hell of flame, dear mother?  You—­with your tender heart!”

She vowed she did.

Some theological intricacy made it necessary to her, but still------

She looked thoughtfully at a bank of primulas before her for a time, and then laid her tremulous hand impressively on my arm.  “You know, Willie, dear,” she said, as though she was clearing up a childish misunderstanding of mine, “I don’t think any one will go there.  I never did think that. . . .”