it, and growls. His supper will be completely spoilt."
"Oh, that weary writing!"
"I can do no more, mother, so you must come down and stop him."
"I have no power over him," my mother says, but she rises smiling, and presently she is opening my door.
"In five minutes!" I cry, but when I see that it is she I rise and put my arm round her. "What a full basket!" she says, looking at the wastepaper basket which contains most of my work of the night, and with a dear gesture she lifts up a torn page and kisses it. "Poor thing," she says to it, "and you would have liked so fine to be printed!" and she puts her hand over my desk to prevent my writing more.
"In the last five minutes," I begin, "one can often do more than in the first hour."
"Many a time I've said it in my young days," she says slowly.
"And proved it, too!" cries a voice from the door, the voice of one who was prouder of her even than I; it is true, and yet almost unbelievable, that any one could have been prouder of her than I.
"But those days are gone," my mother says solemnly, "gone to come back no more. You'll put by your work now, man, and have your sup-
