So, after all, Reuther had not been so
blind on that day as she had always feared.
"Oliver has faults--Oh, let me talk about him just for once,
darling mother," the poor, stricken child babbled on. "His temper
is violent, or so he has often told me, coming and going like a
gust of--No, mamma, don't make me stop. If he has faults he has
good traits too. He was always gentle with me and if that far-away
look you did not like would come at times and take him, as it
were, out of our world, such a sweet awakening would follow when
he realised that I was waiting for his spirit to come back, that I
never minded the mystery, in my joy at the comfort which my love
gave him."
"My child, my child!"
"Mother, I can soothe the father, but I can no longer soothe
Oliver. That is my saddest thought. It makes me wish, sometimes,
that he would find another loving heart on which he could lean
without any self-reproach. I should soon learn to bear it. It
would so assure his future and rid me of the fear that he may fail
to hold the place he has won by such hard work and persistence."
A moment's silence, then a last appeal on the part of the mother.
"Reuther, have I ever been harsh to you?"
"No, no."
"Then you will not think me unkind or even untender if I say that
every loving thought you give now to Oliver is hurtful both to
yourself and to me. Don't indulge in them, my darling. Put your
heart into work or into music, and your mother will bless you.
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