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"Mother! come down to us. There's no one but Will and me. Dearest
mother, we do so want you." The poor lad's voice trembled, and he
began to cry. It appeared to require an effort on Mrs. Leigh's part
to tear herself away from the window, but with a sigh she complied
with his request.
The two boys (for though Will was nearly twenty-one, she still
thought of him as a lad) had done everything in their power to make
the house-place comfortable for her. She herself, in the old days
before her sorrow, had never made a brighter fire or a cleaner
hearth, ready for her husband's return home, than now awaited her.
The tea-things were all put out, and the kettle was boiling; and the
boys had calmed their grief down into a kind of sober cheerfulness.
They paid her every attention they could think of, but received
little notice on her part; she did not resist, she rather submitted
to all their arrangements; but they did not seem to touch her heart.
When tea was ended--it was merely the form of tea that had been gone
through--Will moved the things away to the dresser. His mother leant
back languidly in her chair.
"Mother, shall Tom read you a chapter? He's a better scholar than
I."
"Ay, lad!" said she, almost eagerly. "That's it. Read me the
Prodigal Son. Ay, ay, lad. Thank thee."
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