“It isn’t different, is it, father? Aunt Laura’s nothing to her. . . .”
“Eddie, Eddie. . . .” Aunt Laura protested.
“Father, if she asked for me she ought to see me. . .”
“She’s so ill, Eddie. I’m afraid she wouldn’t know you.”
“Oh, I’m sure she would. . . .”
“Edwin, you mustn’t worry your father; there’s a good boy.”
“Oh, Aunt Laura . . .” Then fiercely, “She’s any mother. . . .”
Edwin’s father sighed and looked away. Aunt Laura, with a business-like change of tone which implied that Edwin’s question was disposed of, whispered to his father, “Is she still sleeping?”
“Yes. . . . The doctor says it isn’t really sleep, it’s coma.”
Coma . . . a gloomy and terrible word! What did it mean? Edwin remembered the woman in the train. “Most of them pass away in their sleep like.”