“Where’s Ike Smith?” he said. “It’s all dark here; and I want to say good-bye to him.”
I was kneeling by his side the next minute, holding his hand.
“God bless you, Ike,” he said; “and God bless her. I’m going, old mate; kiss her for me, and tell her that if she hadn’t been made for you, I could have loved her very dearly.”
What could I do or say, when the next minute Lizzy was kneeling on his other side, holding his hand?
“God bless you both,” he whispered. “You’ll get out of the trouble after all; and don’t forget me.”
We promised him we would not, as well as we could, for we were both choked with sorrow; and then he said, talking quickly: “Give poor old Sam Measles my tobacco-box, Ike, the brass one, and shake hands with him for me; and now I want Mother Bantem.”
She was by his side directly, to lift him gently in her arms, calling him her poor gallant boy, her brave lad, and no end of fond expressions.
“I never had a bairn, Harry,” she sobbed; “but if I could have had one, I’d have liked him to be like you, my own gallant, light-hearted soldier boy; and you were always to me as a son.”
“Was?” says Harry softly. “I’m glad of it, for I never knew what it was to have a mother.”
He seemed to fall off to sleep after that, when, no one noticing them, those two children came up, and the first I heard of it was little Clive crying: “Ally Lant—Ally Lant, open eyes, and come and play wis elfant.”