'Tell it me, child?' she asked, a little anxiously.
'To see you well again, mother, that is all. Then I shall go on with my work, and we shall get along famously together. But you mustn't talk any longer; you must go to sleep. Shall I sing you to sleep as you used to do to me? Do you remember that dear old song? Well, but I must not talk any longer. I am going to lie here; first let me put out the light.' When I returned to the fond prison of her loving arms, I said softly, 'I shall only say two or three words more. First, mother, you must promise me to get quite well. Promise, now, for my sake.'
'I will try to, dear child; I think I shall; I feel strong already.'
'Then you must tell me that you are happy, dear mother.'
'Ah, my darling, there is not a happier mother in the world. Blessed with such a son, I should be ungrateful to God if I were not.'
'And now, mother, not another word----'
'But draw the counterpane round you, darling; you will take cold else.'
'There, it is done; feel: and I'm quite warm. Good-night, mother. One kiss--two--three; and before you can count three more I shall be asleep.'
I pretended to be, but I remained awake, listening to her sighs of happiness. Every now and then she passed her fingers over my face, and over my eyes, to learn if they were closed. After a time she fell asleep herself, and her composed peaceful breathing seemed in itself an assurance of returning health.