Page:Cup of Gold-1929.djvu/23

“He's only a little boy,” Mother Morgan snapped. “He can't be going to the Indies.”

“When Dafydd set out, a little time ago, there was a longing in the child's eyes that will never be satisfied at all, not even if he does go to the Indies. Haven't you noticed, Mother, how his eyes look away beyond the mountains at something he wants?”

“But he may not go! He may not!”

“Ah, there is no use in it, Mother. A great gulf lies between my son and me, but none at all between me and my son. If I did not know the lean hunger of him so well I might forbid his venturing, and he would run away with anger in his heart; for he cannot understand the hunger that's in me for his staying. It would come to the same thing, anyway.” Robert gathered conviction.

“There's a cruel difference between my son and me. I've seen it in the years of his growing. For whereas he runs about sticking his finger into pot after pot of cold porridge, grandly confident that each one will prove the pottage of his dreaming, I may not open any kettle, for I believe all porridge to be cold. And so—I imagine great dishes of purple porridge, drenched with dragon's milk, sugared with a sweetness only to be envisioned. He tests his dreams, Mother, and I—-God help me!—am afraid to.”

She was becoming impatient with his talking.

“Robert,” she cried almost angrily, “in any time when there's boding on us, or need, or sorrow, you hide in words. Here is a duty to you! This boy