Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. There are pretty much three types, those that accept, and those who run away, and those who fight. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. I owe his mother one, and will repay the debt, with interest, to her son. “Call me Cathy, John.
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