“Not goodygood, David; but will you always be honest, and brave, and kind, as you are now?”
“I’ll try, mother.”
“And never forget those who do you a kindness, David; always show your gratitude.”
“Yes, mother.”
“And, David, watch your temper and, whatever happens, I shall have no fears for your future.”
His mother seldom talked to him in this wise. He thought about it after he lay in his little cot in the sitting room that night; then his mind wandered to Joe Forbes and his wonderful tales 32 of the West. He fell asleep to dream of cowboys and prairies. When he awoke the sun was sending golden beams through the eastward window.
“Mother isn’t up,” he thought in surprise. He stole quietly out to the kitchen, kindled a fire with as little noise as possible, put the kettle over, set the table, and then went into the one tiny bedroom where his mother lay in her bed, still––very still.
“Mother,” he said softly.
There was no response.
“Mother,” he repeated. Then piercingly, in excitement and fear, “Mother!”