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How could I bear to think your life wouldn't be a happy one!"
"Your own's been bad enough, mater, but it hasn't left you so much worse
off than the folk who've been happier. I reckon you've done well. And I
am the same. Aren't I well enough off?"
"You're not, my son. Battle--battle--and suffer. It's about all you do,
as far as I can see."
"But why not, my dear? I tell you it's the best--"
"It isn't. And one OUGHT to be happy, one OUGHT."
By this time Mrs. Morel was trembling violently. Struggles of this kind
often took place between her and her son, when she seemed to fight for
his very life against his own will to die. He took her in his arms. She
was ill and pitiful.
"Never mind, Little," he murmured. "So long as you don't feel life's
paltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn't matter, happiness or
unhappiness."
She pressed him to her.
"But I want you to be happy," she said pathetically.
"Eh, my dear--say rather you want me to live."
Mrs. Morel felt as if her heart would break for him.


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