“I’m not going to,” said he.
The nurse went to the door, gave some message, and presently returned to the other side of the bed. Then Lady Ashbridge spoke again.
“Is this death?” she asked.
Michael raised his eyes to the figure standing by the bed. She nodded to him.
He bent forward again.
“Yes, dear mother,” he said.
For a moment her eyes dilated, then grew quiet again, and the smile returned to her mouth.
“I’m not frightened, Michael,” she said, “with you there. It isn’t lonely or terrible.”
She raised her head.
“My son!” she said in a voice loud and triumphant. Then her head fell back again, and she lay with face close to his, and her eyelids quivered and shut. Her breath came slow and regular, as if she slept. Then he heard that she missed a breath, and soon after another. Then, without struggle at all, her breathing ceased. . . . And outside on the lawn close by the open window the thrush still sang.