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"Mother, Miss Jordan was down to-day, and she said my sketch of a
colliery at work was beautiful."
But Mrs. Morel took no notice. Night after night he forced himself to
tell her things, although she did not listen. It drove him almost insane
to have her thus. At last:
"What's a-matter, mother?" he asked.
She did not hear.
"What's a-matter?" he persisted. "Mother, what's a-matter?"
"You know what's the matter," she said irritably, turning away.
The lad--he was sixteen years old--went to bed drearily. He was cut off
and wretched through October, November and December. His mother tried,
but she could not rouse herself. She could only brood on her dead son;
he had been let to die so cruelly.
At last, on December 23, with his five shillings Christmas-box in his
pocket, Paul wandered blindly home. His mother looked at him, and her
heart stood still.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"I'm badly, mother!" he replied. "Mr. Jordan gave me five shillings for
a Christmas-box!"
He handed it to her with trembling hands.


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