The Brimming Cup

March 15, 1920. 8:30 A.M.

Marise fitted little Mark's cap down over his ears and buttoned his blue

reefer coat close to his throat.

"Now you big children," she said, with an anxious accent, to Paul and

Elly standing with their school-books done up in straps, "be sure to

keep an eye on Mark at recess-time. Don't let him run and get all hot

and then sit down in the wind without his coat. Remember, it's his first

day at school, and he's only six."

She kissed his round, smooth, rosy cheek once more, and let him go. Elly

stooped and took her little brother's mittened hand in hers. She said

nothing, but her look on the little boy's face was loving and maternal.

Paul assured his mother seriously, "Oh, I'll look out for Mark, all

right."

Mark wriggled and said, "I can looken out for myself wivout Paul!"

Their mother looked for a moment deep into the eyes of her older son, so

clear, so quiet, so unchanging and true. "You're a good boy, Paul, a

real comfort," she told him.

To herself she thought, "Yes, all his life he'll look out for people and

get no thanks for it."

* * * * *

She followed the children to the door, wondering at her heavy heart.

What could it come from? There was nothing in life for her to fear of

course, except for the children, and it was absurd to fear for them.

They were all safe; safe and strong and rooted deep in health, and

little Mark was stepping off gallantly into his own life as the others

had done. But she felt afraid. What could she be afraid of? As she

opened the door, their advance was halted by the rush upon them of

Paul's dog, frantic with delight to see the children ready to be off,

springing up on Paul, bounding down the path, racing back to the door,

all quivering eager exultation. "Ah, he's going with the children!"

thought Marise wistfully.

She could not bear to let them leave her and stood with them in the open

door-way for a moment. Elly rubbed her soft cheek against her mother's

hand. Paul, seeing his mother shiver in the keen March air, said,

"Mother, if Father were here he'd make you go in. That's a thin dress.

And your teeth are just chattering."

"Yes, you're right, Paul," she agreed; "it's foolish of me!"

The children gave her a hearty round of good-bye hugs and kisses,

briskly and energetically performed, and went down the stone-flagged

path to the road. They were chattering to each other as they went. Their

voices sounded at first loud and gay in their mother's ears. Then they

sank to a murmur, as the children ran along the road. The dog bounded

about them in circles, barking joyfully, but this sound too grew fainter

and fainter.