“She’s coming!” he muttered. “She’s coming!”
Little Margery clung to him.
“Oh, Willie, is it mother?”
“It is a light—a beautiful yellow light. Can you not see it, Margery?”
But the little girl, like all the world, was without vision. To her all was darkness.
“Tell me, Willie,” she whispered, in a solemn voice. She was not really frightened, for many times before had the dead mother returned in the watches of the night to comfort her stricken children.
“Yes, yes, she is coming now. Oh, mother! Mother!”
“What does she say, Willie?”
“Oh, she is beautiful. She is not crying. She is smiling. It is like the picture we saw of the angel. She looks so happy. Dear, dear mother! Now she is speaking. ‘It is over,’ she says. ‘It is all over.’ She says it again. Now she beckons with her hand. We are to follow. She has moved to the door.”
“Oh, Willie, I dare not.”