"Theer's no eternal, lasting fashion o' love but a mother's to her awn male childer," croaked the other. "Sweethearts' love is a thing o' the blood--a trick o' Nature to tickle us poor human things into breeding 'gainst our better wisdom; but what a mother feels doan't hang on no such broken reed. It's deeper down; it's hell an' heaven both to wance; it's life; an' to lose it is death. See! Essterday I'd 'a' fought an' screamed an' took on like a gude un to be fetched away to the Union; but come they put him in the ground, I'll go so quiet as a lamb." Another silence followed; then the aged widow pursued her theme, at first in the same dreary, cracked monotone, then deepening to passion. "I tell you a gude wife will do 'most anything for a husband an' give her body an' soul to un; but she expects summat in return. She wants his love an' worship for hers; but a mother do give all--all--all--an' never axes nothin' for it. Just a kiss maybe, an' a brightening eye, or a kind word. That's her pay, an' better'n gawld, tu. She'm purty nigh satisfied wi' what would satisfy a dog, come to think on it. 'T is her joy to fret an' fume an' pine o' nights for un, an' tire the A'mighty's ear wi' plans an' suggestions for un; aye, think an' sweat an' starve for un all times. 'T is her joy, I tell 'e, to smooth his road, an' catch the brambles by his way an' let 'em bury their thorns in her flesh so he shaa'n't feel 'em; 't is her joy to hear him babble of all his hopes an' delights; an' when the time comes she'll taake the maid of his heart to her awn, though maybe 't is breakin' wi' fear that he'll forget her in the light of the young eyes. Ax your awn mother if what I sez ban't God's truth. We as got the bwoys be content wi' that little. We awnly want to help theer young shoulders wi' our auld wans, to fight for 'em to the last. We'll let theer wives have the love, we will, an' ax no questions an'--an' we'll break our hearts when the cheel 's took out o' his turn--break our hearts by inches--same as I be doin' now." "An' doan't I love, tu? Weern't he all the world to me, tu? Isn't my heart broken so well as yours?" sobbed Chris. "Hear this, you wummon as talks of a broken heart," answered the elder almost harshly. "Wait--wait till you 'm the mother of a li'l man-cheel, an' see the shining eyes of un a-lookin' into yourn while your nipple's bein' squeezed by his naked gums, an' you laugh at what you suffered for un, an' hug un to you. Wait till he'm grawed from baby to bwoy, from bwoy to man; wait till he'm all you've got left in the cold, starved winter of a sorrowful life; an' wait till he'm brought home to 'e like this here, while you've been sittin' laughin' to yourself an' countin' dream gawld. Then turn about to find the tears that'll comfort 'e, an' the prayers that'll soothe 'e, and the God that'll lift 'e up; but you won't find 'em, Chris Blanchard."