She came over to him presently, standing beside him, saying nothing.
Then at last she reached forth her hand and broke the lily from its
stalk. He started, almost as if something had struck him.
"What did you do that for?" And his voice was fierce.
"I want you to take this for me to your sister--the girl with beautiful
golden hair; I saw her one day, and I shall remember her hair and eyes.
She will like this flower, and she will like you to bring it to her.
"Gracie"--raising her voice--"gather some flowers will you, and make
into bouquets? These young gentlemen will like to carry them to some one.
There must be mothers at home who will enjoy bouquets brought by their
sons."
Over this gently-spoken sentence Nimble Dick laughed a hard, derisive
laugh. It made the dark blood flow into black Dirk's indignant face.
Even Alfred Ried lost self-control for a moment, and flashed a glance at
him out of angry eyes. How could there be any hope of a boy who sneered
at his mother? Yet you need not judge him too harshly.
He thought of his mother, indeed, when he laughed; but alas! he thought
of her as drunk. And he knew her scarcely at all, save as that word
described her. How _could_ "mother" mean to him what it meant to
Alfred Ried? what it meant even to Dirk Colson, whose mother, weak
indeed in body and spirit, full of complaining words, oftentimes weakly
bitter words to him, yet patched his clothes so long as she could get
patches and thread, and would have washed them if she could have got
soap, and been able to bring the water, and if her only tub hadn't been
in pawn.
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