“Oh, mamma, mamma!” he panted as he stumbled on, wishing that he could fly.
When he dragged himself into the room, she was lying on her bed, raised high among the pillows. Her eyes were closed, and the face which was so beautiful to him looked heavy with the strange stupor in which she lay.
“Mamma, I’m here! Mamma, I’ve come!” He flung himself upon the soft, warm shoulder, but it was still, and the comforting arms lay limp upon the counterpane.
“Mamma, what’s the matter? Say something! Look at me!” he cried. But the gray eyes that always beamed upon him with such glad welcome did not open, and the parted lips were unresponsive to his own. There was no movement of her chest to tell him that she even breathed.
A fearful chill struck to his heart. What if she was dying—dead! Other boys’ mothers sometimes died, he knew, but his mother—his mother! He tugged gently at one long, silken braid of hair that lay in his grimy hand like a golden rope, calling her in a voice that shook with fright.
The cry penetrated her dulled senses. It brought her back from the borderland of that far country into which she had almost slipped. Slowly, painfully, with the last faint remnant of her will power, she tried to speak—to answer that beloved, boyish voice.
“My—little boy——” The words came thickly, and her lips did not seem to move.
But it was her voice; she had spoken; she was not dead! He hugged her hard in wild ecstasy and relief.
“I’m glad—you came. I—can’t stay—long. I’ve had—such hopes—for you—little boy. I’ve dreamed—such dreams—for you—I wanted to see—them all come true. If I can—I’ll help you—from—the other side. There’s so much—more I want to say—if only—I had known—— Oh, Bruce—my—li—ttle boy——” Her voice ended in a breath, and stopped.