O unhappy mother that I am, that I must
curse the day a son was born to me! O grief immitigable that it was my
deed, my dreadful deed, that raised him to the throne--the throne that
was Alfred's and Edmund's and Athelstan's!
These were the thoughts that were her only company as she sat brooding
before her winter fire, day after day, and winter following winter,
while the years deepened the lines of anguish on her face and whitened
the hair that was once red gold.
But in the summer time she was less unhappy, for then she could spend
the long hours out of doors under the sky in the large shaded gardens of
the convent with the stream for boundary on the lower side. This stream
had now become more to her than in the old days when, languishing in
solitude, she had made it a companion and confidant. For now it had
become associated in her mind with the image of the maid Editha, and
when she sat again at the old spot on the bank gazing on the swift
crystal current, then dipping her hand in it and putting the wetted hand
to her lips, the stream and Editha were one.
Then one day she was missed, and for a long time they sought for her all
through the building and in the grounds without finding her.
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