He looked on the ground, and said nothing.
“And how long—how long?”
“It may be six hours—it may be twelve; I fear it cannot be more than twelve.” And then he began to give consolation in the only way that lay in his poor power, explaining that in a frame so shattered the spirit could not have lingered long, and might have lingered in much suffering. “It was best as it was,” he said.
And Olive, knowing all, bowed her head, and answered, “Yes.” She thought not of herself—she thought only of the enfeebled body about to be released from earthly pain, of the soul before whom heaven was even now opened.
“Does she know? Did you tell her?”
“I did. She asked me, and I thought it right.”
Thus, both knew, mother and child, that a few brief hours were all that lay between their love and eternity. And knowing this, they again met.
With a step so soft that it could have reached no ear but that of a dying woman, Olive re-entered the room.
“Is that my child!”
“My mother—my own mother!” Close, and wild, and strong—wild as love and strong as death—was the clasp that followed. No words passed between them, not one, until Mrs. Rothesay said, faintly,