Yet, for a moment, as the embittered mind gabbled
through the string of words that long habit had crystallised into an
empty formula, Mother noticed that the lines of grey grew slightly
clearer; the coil and tangle ceased; they even made an effort to
emerge and leave the muddy cloud that obscured their knotted,
intricate disorder.
The formula Mother recognised; it had hardly changed, indeed, since
she herself had learned it at those very knees when days were
brighter; it began with wholesale and audacious requests for self,
then towards the end passed into vague generalities for the welfare of
others. And just here it was that the lines of grey turned brighter
and tried to struggle out of the murky atmosphere. The sight was
pathetic, yet deeply significant. Mother understood its meaning. There
was hope. Behind the prayer for others still shone at least an echo of
past meaning.
'I believe in you, old, broken, disappointed heart,' flashed through
her own bright atmosphere, 'and, believing, I can help you!'
Her skill, however, was slight, owing to lack of practice and
experience. She moved over to the bed, trying first to force her own
darting rays into the opaque, dull cloud surrounding the other; then
seeking a better way-for this had no results---she slipped somehow
inside the mist, getting behind it, down at the very source.
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