“Norman,” said his father, in a voice betraying much grief, “it will not do to go on in this way. If your mother was here, you would not close yourself against her.”
Norman interrupted him in a voice strangled with sobs: “It is no good saying it—I thought it would only make it worse for you; but that’s it. I cannot bear the being without her.”
Dr. May was glad to see that a gush of tears followed this exclamation, as Norman hid his face under the coverings.
“My poor boy,” said he, hardly able to speak, “only One can comfort you truly; but you must not turn from me; you must let me do what I can for you, though it is not the same.”
“I thought it would grieve you more,” said Norman, turning his face towards him again.
“What, to find my children, feeling with me, and knowing what they have lost? Surely not, Norman.”
“And it is of no use,” added Norman, hiding his face again, “no one can comfort—”
“There you are wrong,” said Dr. May, with deep feeling, “there is much comfort in everything, in everybody, in kindness, in all around, if one can only open one’s mind to it. But I did not come to keep you awake with such talk: I saw you were not quite well, so I came up to see about you; and now, Norman, you will not refuse to own that something is the matter.”
“I did not know it,” said Norman, “I really believe I am well, if I could get rid of these horrible nights. I either lie awake, tumbling and tossing, or I get all sorts of unbearable dreams.”
“Ay, when I asked master Harry about you, all the answer I could get was, that he was quite used to it, and did not mind it at all. As if I asked for his sake! How fast that boy sleeps—he is fit for a midshipman’s berth!”