With his blood bounding and
tingling in his veins, his strong arms pulsating with life, and his heart
full of a man's vigor and resolve, his mother's life seemed to him to be
one of weariness and drudgery, of constant, unceasing self-abnegation.
Calm he knew she was, always sustained, never faltering; but her victory
was one which, like the spiritual sweetness in the face of the dying, had
something of sadness for the living heart.
He opened the door and came in, sat down by her on the floor, and laid
his head in her lap.
"Mother, you never rest; you never stop working."
"Oh, no!" she said gaily, "I'm just going to stop now. I had only a few
last things I wanted to get done."
"Mother, I can't bear to think of you; your life is too hard. We all have
our amusements, our rests, our changes; your work is never done; you are
worn out, and get no time to read, no time for anything but drudgery."
"Don't say drudgery, my boy--work done for those we love _never_ is
drudgery. I'm so happy to have you all around me I never feel it."
"But, mother, you are not strong, and I don't see how you can hold out to
do all you do."
"Well," she said simply, "when my strength is all gone I ask God for
more, and he always gives it.
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