THE BLIND MOTHER
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THE LAST CONFESSION
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The Vale of Newlands lay green in the morning sunlight; the river thatran through its lowest bed sparkled with purple and amber; the leavesprattled low in the light breeze that soughed through the rushes and thelong grass; the hills rose sheer and white to the smooth blue lake ofthe sky, where only one fleecy cloud floated languidly across from peakto peak. Out of unseen places came the bleating of sheep and the rumbleof distant cataracts, and above the dull thud of tumbling waters faraway was the thin caroling of birds overhead.
But the air was alive with yet sweeter sounds. On the breast of the fellthat lies over against Cat Bell a procession of children walked, andsang, and chattered, and laughed. It was St. Peter's Day, and they wererush-bearing; little ones of all ages, from the comely girl of fourteen,just ripening into maidenhood, who walked last, to the sweet boy of fourin the pinafore braided with epaulets, who strode along gallantly infront. Most of the little hands carried rushes, but some were filledwith ferns, and mosses, and flowers. They had assembled at theschoolhouse, and now, on their way to the church, they were making thecircuit of the dale.
They passed over the road that crosses the river at the head ofNewlands, and turned down into the path that follows the bed of thevalley. At that angle there stands a little group of cottagesdeliciously cool in their whitewash, nestling together under the heavypurple crag from which the waters of a ghyll fall into a deep basin thatreaches to their walls. The last of the group is a cottage with its endto the road, and its open porch facing a garden shaped like a wedge. Asthe children passed this house an old man, gray and thin and much bent,stood by the gate, leaning on a staff. A collie, with the sheep's dogwooden bar suspended from its shaggy neck, lay at his feet. The hum ofvoices brought a young woman into the porch. She was bareheaded and worea light print gown. Her face was pale and marked with lines. She walkedcautiously, stretching one hand before her with an uncertain motion, andgrasping a trailing tendril of honeysuckle that swept downward from theroof. Her eyes, which were partly inclined upward and partly turnedtoward the procession, had a vague light in their bleached pupils. Shewas blind. At her side, and tugging at her other hand, was a child of ayear and a half—a chubby, sunny little fellow with ruddy cheeks, blueeyes, and fair curly hair. Prattling, laughing, singing snatches, andwaving their rushes and ferns above their happy, thoughtless heads, thechildren rattled past. When they were gone the air was empty, as it iswhen the lark stops in its song.
After the procession of children had passed the little cottage at theangle of the roads, the old