I touched her face; it was cold as ice. touched her hand.
Cheneston's mother had fallen asleep happily.
"Oh, my dear!" I whispered. "And I came to tell you—and now you'll never know that I wanted to be his mother, and he wanted another sort."
I don't know how long I stayed there. I seemed very close to her. She was so beautiful, the loveliest old thing with that little tender smile curving her lips; the peace of her, like the loveliness, was indescribable.
I wondered if in heaven there were things to mother and love. I hoped so; her life had been so full of warmth, so radiant with humanity. I thought of her extraordinary quaintness, the delicious way she put things—I heard again her laughter.
I looked at the letter.
"The child loves you, Cheneston."
He mustn't see that; last words have a tremendous significance, and we credit those who are near heaven with super-insight; just those few words might set him questioning and wondering, might get between him and Grace Gilpin.
Had I right to rob him of her last message?
To leave it there would be to give myself a chance; to take it would be to destroy my last.