Bruised and half-conscious she was left to her deliverer, and the back-broken water crept tamed under its old foe. The hammer of hope awoke her heart. Along the friendly back of the tree she crawled, and among its bared roots rested. But it was only to get her breath, for this was mother's side.
She breasted the rise. Then every horror was of the past and forgotten, for there in the hollow was home.
And there was the light shining its welcome to her.
She quickened her pace, but did not run—motherhood is instinct in woman. The rain had come again, and the wind buffeted her. To breathe was a battle, yet she went on swiftly, for at the sight of the light her nameless fear had left her.
She would tell mother how she had heard her call in the night, and mother would smile her grave smile and stroke her wet hair, call her "Little woman! My little woman!" and tell her she had been dreaming, just dreaming. Ah, but mother herself was a dreamer!
The gate was swollen with rain and difficult to open. It had been opened by mother last