you will be the means of giving bread to others."
The hop-picker accepted the arrangement. Peace came back.
In the vague pagan fashion of the young I thought, too, that by kind deeds I might pay off my mother's score. Her fears for us somehow prevented her from feeling for other people's children. Something I didn't know about had made her like that.
In my struggle to resolve the discord between a nagging conscience, and my adoration for my mother, I seemed to leave childhood behind.
Still, very dimly, if at all, could I have realised there was any connection between her continued shrinking from our fellow-creatures, and that old nameless fcar we used to bar the door against. Yet in one guise or another, Fear still was at the gate. Yesterday the menace of Bettina's illness. To-day a hop-picker, bringing a whiff of the sick world's infection through our windows.
To-morrow?
