“Oh, my boys, my boys!” the mother sobbed, “and they will only remember me carping, fretful, scolding. But no one will keep Alfie from telling stories now, and Richie from being greedy, and Clif from selfishness.”
“I will do my best, Ellie,” said the poor doctor.
“But you are away,” she said despairingly, “how can you watch them? You must give them another mother.”
But again he implored her not to make it too hard for him, and she grew silent, and leaning her head against him stared with wistful eyes about the shabby, comfortless room, that soon would know her no more. And yet there was a strange pleasure in the thought of shutting her eyes for ever on it. Since the time Clif was a fractious, delicate baby (he was fourteen now), it seemed to her she had never known what it was to have an unbroken night. Oh! the peace of death, the exquisite restfulness!—she felt too tired to lift her eyes just yet to green pastures or streets of sardonyx and pearls,—all she wanted was to be left alone to sleep, sleep, sleep.
[172]
]Away in her own cottage, some days later, Mrs. Conway’s eyes were wet over a parcel of books Clif had just brought her.
The lad’s eyes were red, his mouth twitched at every word; it was only yesterday he and his father and Teddie and Alf had stood by that yawning grave, and watched their mother put away out of sight and sound for all time.
“Father says she asked him to give you these,” he said, thrusting out his parcel; Mrs. Conway’s eyes filled at his desolate looks; she put her arm round his shoulder as he stood there.
“Poor old fellow, poor old fellow,” she said.
“If you knew what a beast I’ve been to her,” he burst out. Then his tears choked him, and he pushed her comforting arm aside, and went to break his heart in his old hiding-place. There was a note with the books.
“You are the only woman friend I have,” it said, “so there is no one else I can ask this of. Help my little boys all you can, and in any way you can brighten my husband’s life.