And now came all the tale of their distress: Their only son, in wanton waywardness, Had left them, nearly thirty year ago; And they had never had a word from him In all that time... the reckless blow Of his unkindness struck his mother low... Her hair, as ruddy as the fern In late September by a moorland burn, Had shrivelled rimy-white In one short summer’s night: And they had looked, and looked for his return... His mother set for him at every meal, And kept his bed well-aired ... the knife and fork I’d used were John’s ... but, as all hope grew dim, She sickened, dwindling feebler every day: Though, when it seemed that she must pass away, She grew more confident that, ere she passed, A stranger would bring news to her, at last, Of her lost son. "And when I woke in bed Beside her, as the dawn was burning red, She turned to me, with sleepless eyes, and said: ’The news will come, to-day.’" He spoke no more: and silent in my seat, With burning eyes upon the burning peat, I pondered on this strangest of strange things That had befallen in my vagrant life: And how, at last, my idle wanderings Had brought me to this old man and his wife. And as I brooded o’er the blaze, I thought with awe of that steadfast desire Which, unto me unknown, Had drawn me through long years, by such strange ways, From that dark fo’c’sle to this cottage-fire. And now, at last, quite spent, I dropped asleep: And slumbered long and deep: And when I waked, the peats were smouldering white Upon the white hearthstone: And over heath and bent dawn kindled bright Beyond dark ridges in a rosy fleece: While from the little window morning light Fell on her face, made holy with the peace That passeth understanding; and was shed In tender beams upon the low-bowed head Of that old man, forlorn beside the bed. THE SHOP