He was silent for a few minutes, then the words came thick and fast.
"Madge, I've not been a good brother to you; I meant to have been, but I have thought and thought of nothing but myself. I ought to have gone to the shop. I ought not to have let you want. O Madge! if I might but live, if I might but live!" and then tears fell one by one down the thin, pale cheeks, and dropped on Madge's hand.
"Please, dear Raymond, lie quiet; the doctor said you must be very quiet."
"But, Madge, it doesn't signify; I'm dying, I know I am, and I must speak to you!" he said, raising his voice, and speaking with all the energy of those who know that they are soon to be silent for evermore; "what will you do? what will become of you?"
"Don't fear for me, dear brother," answered Madge, who was crying bitterly.
"No, you love and fear God, and he will take care of you; I know he will! O Madge, I wish I had loved him as you have; but I've been a bad boy, and now it is too late, too late;—if I might but live!" The words were spoken in a low, vehement whisper, and a smothered groan followed them.
"Raymond, our dear Saviour loves you. Think of him, do not think about yourself," and Madge's face became calm as she spoke.
A smile came over her brother's countenance, he closed his eyes and feebly pressed her hand. Then he lay very still and motionless. Once only his lips moved. Madge thought he said, "Mother!" Then all was silent as the grave, except the ticking of the clock in the next room. Madge seemed counting every swing of the pendulum. They seemed like the last grains of sand in the hour-glass of her brother's life, and his breath was getting shorter. At length she could hardly find out whether he breathed or not. She thought of what the doctor said to Mr. Smith: "If he does not rally, there will probably be a short period of consciousness before he dies, and then he will go off quietly." She supposed that period was over now, and Raymond would never speak to her again,—Raymond, her pride, her glory. He was slipping away from her, and soon she should have no brother. Poor little Madge! Years afterwards she could recall that scene more vividly than any other in her life—the look of everything around her; the lazy flies creeping up the window-pane, and one or two which were buzzing about her head; the glass standing on the chair by Raymond's side, which she had held to his lips but a few minutes before, and which she knew he would never drink from again; the way in which she had smoothed the bed-clothes and moved his pillow; and that still, white face, so inexpressibly dear to her, that rested upon it. There was a step beside her, and looking round she saw Mrs. Smiley. The good woman started as she saw Raymond. Then drawing Madge away, she said tenderly, "Poor lamb, come in here now;" and she tried to induce her to leave the room.
"No, no! I must stay," Madge said vehemently, and she sprang to Raymond's side. "Mrs. Smiley, he isn't dead."
"Then he looks like it. Come away, Miss Madge."