So she did. And it seems that this invalid widow, Mrs. Randal, whom she's come to nurse, is the mother of the man she told me about in the Park--the man who turned monk because he loved her, and thought she didn't care. "I come once or twice a year, even when she's well," said Sally, with the soft voice and eyes which she has for this one subject of all in the world. "It's the best of the few pleasures I have, to be with her and--talk of him; of him when he was a little boy; of him when he was a young man, happy in the thought of the future--not knowing what was to come. I found this little place for her, years ago now. She wasn't happy in Kentucky, for there were relatives there who were not congenial, and used to say things--of her son's religion--which distressed her. But she is old now, and very delicate. She knows I would never forgive her if she didn't have her little maid telegraph for me when she is suffering. I always come at once, and would, no matter where I was. You see, I've no mother of my own; and she is _his_ mother; it's almost the same as if she were mine. But don't look so sad, dear. I'm not sad. She's going to get well. We've been glancing over old photographs of his this evening. She has quite forgiven me for the past." "I should think so!" I couldn't help exclaiming. "You were the one who suffered most." "Not more than his mother, child! But she's old, as I said, and thank heaven I'm beginning to grow old, too. Each day is one less before we meet--he and I. That's what I'm looking forward to now, and I'm not a bit sad, so kiss me, and tell me just what you think of those dear things, the Trowbridges." Going home, Mr. Brett and I walked along the road until we'd passed the cow meadow; then we took to the short cuts again. A lovely blue darkness was just touched with the faint radiance of a new moon, as if the lid of a box had snapped shut on the sun; and the moment the light was gone, the fields lit up with thousands and thousands of tiny, pulsing, flitting sparks. "What _is_ it?" I asked, astonished. "Fireflies," said he. "Did you never see any before?" "Never. How wonderful. They are the most exquisite, magical little things!" "Then I'm glad you're seeing them for the first time with me," he said. I stopped, and made him stop, to look at the enchanted rain of tiny lights. We stood in a billowy meadow, with the pale gray-green of the stacked oats dimly silvered by the baby moon, that was hurrying down the west after the sun. The bundles of grain made pointed, gothic arches, and through these, back and forth, in and out, threaded the fireflies, like fairies with lanterns searching for lost members of their band. What a pity they never come to England to search!