'I don't know; only this, as I grow older, the things way back come to me, and the others fade away.

The dark woman; my mother,'-- she spoke the name very low--'is not half as real to me as the pale, sick face, on which the firelight shines.

It is a small house, and a low room, a poor room, I think, with a big, white stove in the corner, and somebody is putting wood in it; a dark woman; she stoops; and from the open door the firelight falls upon the face in the chair--the woman who is always writing when she is not in bed; and I am there, a little child; and when the pale face cries, I cry, too; and when she dies--oh, Harold! but you saw me play it once, and wondered where I got the idea.
I saw it.

I know I did; I was there, a part of the play.

I was the little child.