"Oh, Heaven, I promise you, Nora—the Lord forgive me for it!" wept Hannah.
"The Lord bless you for it, Hannah." Her voice sunk into murmurs and the cold shades of death crept over her face again; but rallying her fast failing strength she gasped:
"My boy, quick! Oh, quick, Hannah!"
Hannah lifted the babe from his nest and held him low to meet his mother's last kiss.
"There, now, lay him on my arm, Hannah, close to my left side, and draw my hand over him; I would feel him near me to the very last."
With trembling fingers the poor woman obeyed.
And the dying mother held her child to her heart, and raised her glazing eyes full of the agony of human love to Heaven, and prayed:
"O pitiful Lord, look down in mercy on this poor, poor babe! Take him under thy care!" And with this prayer she sank into insensibility.
Hannah flew to the door and beckoned Herman. He came in, the living image of despair. And both went and stood by the bed. They dared not break the sacred spell by speech. They gazed upon her in silent awe.
Her face was gray and rigid; her eyes were still and stony; her breath and pulse were stopped. Was she gone? No, for suddenly upon that face of death a great light dawned, irradiating it with angelic beauty and glory; and once more with awful solemnity deep bell-like tones tolled forth the notes.