"Not the child of our souls. You'll see what I mean, if you ever see her. Think it over—a few minutes, and then tell me. I feel—somehow I should like to know, before going. Wake me—in ten minutes. I think I could sleep—till then. Such a rest, since I told you! No pain."
"Oughtn't I to call the doctor?" Max half rose from his chair by the bedside.
"No, no. I want nothing—except to sleep—for ten minutes. Can you decide—in ten minutes?"
"Yes."
"You promise to wake me then?"
"Yes," Max said again.
For ten minutes there was silence in the room, save for a little sound of crackling wood in the open fire that Rose had always loved.
Max had decided, and the time had come to keep his promise. He must speak, to wake the sleeper. But he did not know what to call her. She said that she had never loved him as a son. She must always have felt irritated when he dared to address her as "Dearest"—he, the little French bourgeois. She would hate it now.
"Rose!" he whispered. Then a little louder, "Rose!"
She did not answer.