Thank her—as kindly as you can, and close your eyes, and dream—or rouse up, to lay your hand upon the head of your little boy—to drink in health and happiness from his earnest look as he gazes strangely upon your pale and shrunken forehead. Your smile even, ghastly with long suffering, disturbs him; there is no interpreter, save the heart, between you.
Your parched lips feel strangely to his flushed, healthful face; and he steps about on tip-toe, at a motion from the nurse, to look at all those rosy-colored medicines upon the table—and he takes your cane from the corner, and passes his hand over the smooth ivory head; and he runs his eye along the wall from picture to picture, till it rests on one he knows—a figure in bridal dress—beautiful, almost fond—and he forgets himself, and says aloud—“There’s mamma!”
The nurse puts her finger to her lip; you waken from your doze to see where your eager boy is looking; and your eyes, too, take in much as they can of that figure—now shadowy to your fainting vision—doubly shadowy to your fainting heart!
From day to day you sink from life: the physician says the end is not far off; why should it be? There is very little elastic force within you to keep the end away. Madame is called, and your little boy. Your sight is dim, but they whisper that she is beside your bed; and you reach out your hand—both hands. You fancy you hear a sob—a strange sound! It seems as if it came from distant years—a confused, broken, sigh, sweeping over the long stretch of your life: and a sigh from your heart—not audible—answers it.
Your trembling fingers clutch the hand of your little boy, and you drag him toward you, and move your lips, as if you would speak to him; and they place his head near you, so that you feel his fine hair brushing your cheek—“My boy, you must love—your mother!”
Your other hand feels a quick, convulsive grasp, and something like a tear drops upon your face. Good God! Can it be indeed a tear?
You strain your vision, and a feeble smile flits over your features as you seem to see her figure—the figure of the painting—bending over you; and you feel a bound at your heart—the same bound that you felt on your bridal morning; the same bound which you used to feel in the springtime of your life.
—Only one—rich, full bound of the heart—that is all!
—My cigar is out. I could not have lit it again if I would. It was wholly burned.
“Aunt Tabithy”—said I, as I finished reading—“may I smoke now under your rose tree?”