“God help me! the dearest right that ever mother had,” exclaimed Martha, no longer slowly; “because my soul has travailed and agonized; because I put my hopes upon you, Harry--my hopes that were once shipwrecked, to be cast away again! Look at me, mind me all your life, boy, before you defy me! Night and day, sleeping and waking, I have carried you on my heart. When I was in my first youth, I cried with strong crying, and pangs such as you never knew, for power and wealth, and to win it with my hands. Who was it for, but you? Then I came to a dearer hope. I thought _you_ would win it, Harry; and I would eat bread out of your hands, and exult in you, and call upon the heavens and the earth to see that you were mine. What of _my_ hopes? They are ill to slay, but God has touched them, and they have died out of my heart. _I_ have failed, and _you_ have failed, and there is no more expectation under the sun. But I call you to witness you are mine--bought with the blood of my tears and my travail--my son, Harry--my son!” He did not answer, he did not look at her, but only covered his face with his hands. “We are worsted, but we need not be destroyed,” continued Martha. “I accept the failure that is past, and acquiesce in it, because it has been God’s will--but God never wills that we should fail in the future, Harry. God be thanked that _it_ lies continually before us, free of stain. And hope is hard to me--maybe it is because my tribulations have not wrought patience, that experience does not bring me hope. But I will hope again--I will make another venture, and look for another harvest, Harry, if you will bid me! Not like the last--God forbid that it should be like the last! I will turn my face towards the needful conquest we have to make--you and me--and hope for _that_, though it is greater than taking a city. But Harry, Harry, I cannot bear to see you sinking--harder than it is to them, who are weeping for you yonder, it is to me who cannot shed a tear. Harry, am I to hope again?” But sad and terrible was the gleam in Martha’s dry strained eyes; not like sunshine but like lightning, was the feverish hope for which she pleaded. And Harry rose and took her hand, himself trembling with strong emotion. “From this day henceforth,” he vowed, with a choking voice, “never more, Martha, never more, can I forget myself, and them, and you.” And there fell upon Martha a sudden relief of weeping, such as her eyes had not known for months. “You were once my boy, my bairn, Harry,” she said, with a strange hysteric smile, “I cannot forget that you were my bairn, my little brother--Harry--my hope!” And Harry covered his face once more, and was not ashamed to weep.