It was like a
lantern in a London fog. A few dim lines of sombre grey issued heavily
from it, but got no farther than its outer surface, then doubled back
and plunged in again. They coiled and twisted into ugly knots. Her
mother's atmosphere was opaque, and as dismal as a November fog. There
was a speck of light in the room, however, and it came, the visitor
then perceived, from a single candle that stood beside the bed. The
old lady had been reading; she rarely slept before two o'clock in the
morning.
And at first, so disheartening, so hopeless seemed the task, that
Mother wavered in her mission; a choking, suffocating sensation
blocked all her channels of delivery. The very flowers on the window-
sill, she noted, drooped in a languishing decline; they had a lifeless
air as of flowers that struggle for existence in deep shadow and have
never known the kiss of sunshine. Through the inch of opened window
stole a soft breath of the night air, but it turned black and sluggish
the moment it came in. And just then, as Mother hovered there in
hesitating doubt, the figure turned and moved across to the bed,
supporting herself with the ebony cane she always used. Stiffly she
sank upon her knees. The habit was as strong as putting her shoes
outside the door at night to be cleaned,-those shoes that never knew
the stain of roadway dust-and equally devoid of spiritual
significance.
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