Except anxiety about my
mother and my little brothers and sisters, I, for my part, had no
thought besides this of being some day a painter. Except love for her
and for them, I had no other passion. By assiduous attendance at
night-schools I learnt to read and write. This enabled me to take a
better berth in Black Waggon Street, where I earned enough to take
lessons in drawing from the reduced widow of a once prosperous
fogger. But ah! so eager was I to learn, that I did not notice how my
mother was fading, wasting, dying slowly. It was not till too late
that I learnt the appalling truth, that while the babes had been
nourished, the mother had starved--starved! On a few ounces of bread
a day no woman can work the Oliver and prod the fire. Her last
whispers to me were, "I shall see you, dear, a great painter yet;
Jesus will let me look down and watch my boy." Ah, Sinfi Lovell! that
makes you weep. It is long, long since I ceased to weep at that.
"Whatsoever is not of faith is sin."'
Rhona Boswell, down whose face also the tears were streaming, nodded
in a patronising way to Wilderspin, and said, 'Reia, my mammy lives
in the clouds, and I'll tell her to show you the Golden Hand, I
will.
Pages:
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387