“But you,” she said at last, “is your father living?”
“No,” he replied.
“And your mother?” she faltered.
“She has been dead many years. And I have no brothers or sisters.”
“My mother died when I was a little child,” she mused. “Death seemed to me much more awful then than it does now.”
“It is always more awful to those who are left than to those who go,” he said. “But don’t think of that yet.”
“We must think of it,” she insisted.
He did not answer.
“You don’t wish to die, do you?” she demanded.
“No; and I don’t wish you to die. Try to take a different view, Girl. We really have a chance of getting out.”