Farewell, Little Brothers

OnLy a few days of rest, and the mother knew she must return. She could not rest with us while her little Mischief with his wide-open eyes might be seeing unforgettable things and hearing words no love of hers could wash from memory. Her baby had been taken, protesting indignantly, to our little hospital, and Vadivu had tended his hurts, for the hard life his mother was living had told very sorely on him. We wanted to keep him till he was well; but even those few days had changed him from a fretful, wailing, skinny scrap into something approaching a jolly baby boy. Even his mother’s anxious eyes would light, till they shone like gentle stars, as she listened to the chuckles of this her unlucky, precious Fifth and saw him nod his bandaged little head when we asked him: “Tell us, little God’s gift, tell us, will you come back for the Christmas festival?” We had dreaded the good-bye. The boys and their cousin, who so far has taken the law into his own hands and decidedly intends to stay, were with the others in the playroom when the time came for Mimosa to go. She had seen her own alone before; now she just looked in, all her hungry mother-passion in her eyes; but they did not see it. ‘“‘ Farewell, little brothers,’ she said, waving her hand to the whole company, indicating with a delicate, purposeful turn of the phrase that hers were ours and ours were hers, each and all included in that farewell: “Peace be with you, my little brothers.”

And so she left us, loving and simple and very brave.