You find her propped with pillows; she is looking over a little picture-book be-thumbed by the dear boy she has lost. She hides it in her chair; she has pity on you.
—Another day of revival, when the spring sun shines, and flowers open out of doors; she leans on your arm, and strolls into the garden where the first birds are singing. Listen to them with her—what memories are in bird-songs! You need not shudder at her tears—they are tears of thanksgiving. Press the hand that lies light upon your arm, and you, too, thank God, while yet you may!
You are early home—mid-afternoon. Your step is not light; it is heavy, terrible.
They have sent for you.
She is lying down; her eyes half closed; her breathing long and interrupted.
She hears you; her eye opens; you put your hand in hers; yours trembles—hers does not. Her lips move; it is your name.
“Be strong,” she says, “God will help you!”
She presses harder your hand: “Adieu!”