And now the old man touched me, to recall My wandering thoughts; and breathed again the name And I looked up into the mother’s face That burned before me with grey eyes aflame. And so I told her how I’d met her son; And of the kindly things that he had done. And as I spoke her quivering spirit drank The news that it had thirsted for so long; And for a flashing moment gay and strong Life flamed in her old eyes, then slowly sank. "And he was happy when you saw him last?" She asked: and I was glad to answer, "Yes." Then all sat dreaming without stir or sound, As gradually she sank into the past, With eyes that looked beyond all happiness, Beyond all earthly trouble and distress, Into some other world than ours. The thread That long had held the straining life earthbound Was loosed at last: her eyes grew dark: her head Drooped slowly on her breast; and she was dead. The old man at her side spoke not a word, As we arose, and bore her to the bed; And laid her on the clean, white quilt at rest With calm hands folded on her quiet breast. And, hour by hour, he hardly even stirred, Crouching beside me in the ingle-seat; And staring, staring at the still red glow: But, only when the fire was burning low, He rose to bring fresh peat; And muttered with dull voice and slow: "This fire has ne’er burned out through all these years-- Not since the hearthstone first was set-- And that is nigh two hundred year ago. My father’s father built this house; and I... I thought my son..." and then he gave a sigh; And as he stooped, his wizened cheek was wet With slowly-trickling tears. And now he hearkened, while an owl’s keen cry Sang through the silence, as it fluttered nigh The cottage-window, dazzled by the light, Then back, with fainter hootings, into night. But, when the fresh peats broke into a blaze, He watched it with a steady, dry-eyed gaze; And spoke once more: "And he, dead, too! You did not tell her; but I knew ... I knew!"