“Why dost thou not waken, my mother? Behold, the sun is high. Why dost thou sleep so long? Why art thou so cold and pale? Mamma! Mamma!”
The silken lashes are not lifted from the marble cheek; the white lips make no answer.
“She is so weary, I will not disturb her. I will watch until she wakens.”
The morning creeps away, the noon, and the afternoon, and now the evening comes.
“Mamma! my dear mamma!”
Still the eyelids are not lifted, and the white lips are dumb.
The night goes by, and a day, and another night, and the morning dawns once more. And again the woman comes peering through the door.
“She is dead,” Julie hears her say.
Men enter and carry the mother away.
“Where are you going with my poor mamma?”