Page:Confessions of a wife (IA confessionsofwif00adamiala).pdf/70

 have nobody to speak to—I cannot talk to the girls I know, and there is n't any older woman who has ever shown a mother-heart to me that I could care for, to turn to now. Mother, don't forget me in your grand heaven! I never needed you so much when I was a little crying baby on your heart,—a little black-faced baby holding its breath till it almost died because it could n't get what it wanted, the way they tell me I used to do,—I never needed you so much when I wore pink socks and little crocheted sacks, as I do today. I wonder if you remember about the socks and the sacks, up there in your great silence? Have the angels driven baby-clothes out of your heart? I don't believe it! Because I remember how much you littled me, before you died—I don't see many mothers like you in these grown-up days. Once, when you had been to Montreal with Father, and I had that typhoid fever and so nearly died, and you came home, and got to my bed without anybody's telling me, and I thought it was the strange nurse, but something fell on my face, hot, fast,—drop after drop, splashing down,—I thought: 'Nurses don't cry over little girl patients,' and I looked, and they were my mother's tears, and it was my mother's face.

"Sacred mother's tears! Flow for me to-day.