'I dreamed,' he faltered; 'I dreamed I saw my mother—my mother.' He repeated the word with a feeble cry—my mother; 'but it's only a dream. I have no mother but the blessed Virgin, and she—she is so far, far away, up in Heaven.'
'Ambrose, my sweetheart, my son!' Mary said gently. 'I am not far away; I am here! Your own mother.'
'It's good of you to come down from Heaven, mother; take me—take me back with you. I am so—so weary—weary; and I can't say all the Latin prayers to you; I can't.'
'Ambrose,' poor Mary said, 'you need say no more Latin prayers; you are with me, your own mother, on earth.'
The wave of remembrance grew stronger, and, after a moment's pause, Ambrose said,—
'Ned brought me two speckled eggs. The hawk caught the poor little bird; the cruel hawk. Where am I? Ave Maria, ora pro nobis.'
'Say rather, dear child, "Dear Father in heaven, bless me, and keep me."'
'Yes, yes; that is the prayer I said by—'
'Me—me, your own mother.'
The long-deferred hope was at last fulfilled, and Mary Gifford tasted the very fruit of the tree of life, as Ambrose, with full consciousness, gazed long and earnestly at her, and said,—