And Dick’s mother continued contented also, which was a perpetual wonder to him. She weathered through the winter, though Dick often watched her narrowly, fearing a return to her old vagrant way. When Val’s boat disappeared from the river with all the others, she was indeed restless for a little while; but it was, as it happened, just about that time that Val took to visiting the little corner house, and these visits kept her in a visionary absorption, always afraid, yet always glad, when he came. In spring she was again somewhat alarming to her son, moving so restlessly in the small space they had, and looking out so wistfully from the window, that he trembled to hear some suggestion of fresh wandering. All that she asked, however, was, When did the boats go up for the first time? a question which Dick answered promptly. “On the 1st of March, mother. I wish it was come,” cried Dick, with animation. “And so do I,” she said, with musing eyes fixed on the river; then alarmed, perhaps, lest he should question her, she added hastily, “It is cheery to see the boats.” “So it is,” said Dick, “especially for you, mother, who go out so seldom. You should take a walk along the banks; it’s cheerful always. I don’t think you half know how pretty it is.” She shook her head. “I am not one for walks,” she said, with a half smile--“not for pleasure, Dick. Since I’ve given up our long tramps, I don’t feel to care for moving. I’m getting old, I think.” “Old!” said Dick, cheerily; “it will be time enough to think of that in twenty years.” “Twenty years is a terrible long time,” she replied, with a little shiver; “I hope I’ll be dead and gone long before that.” “I wish you wouldn’t speak so, mother.” “Ah, but it’s true. My life ain’t much good to any one,” she said. “I am not let to live in my own way, and I can’t live in any other. If God would take me, it would be for the best. Then I might have another chance.” “Mother, you break my heart,” cried Dick, with a face full of anxiety, throwing away his tools, and coming up to her. “Do you mean that it is I that won’t let you live your own way?” “I don’t blame nobody but myself--no; you’ve been a good boy--a very good boy--to me,” she cried; “better, a long way, than I’ve been to you.” “Mother,” said the lad, laying his hand on her shoulder, his face flushing with emotion, “if it’s hard upon you like this--if you want to start off again----” “No, I don’t, I don’t!” she said, with suppressed passion; then falling back into her old dreamy tone--“So the boats go up on the 1st of March? and that’s Monday. To see ’em makes the river cheery. I’m a little down with the winter and all; but as soon as I see ’em, I’ll be all right.” “Please God, mother,” said pious Dick, going back to his carving. He was satisfied, but yet he was startled. For, after all, why should she care so much about the boats?