“Can I trust you with a message?”
“Yes.”
“Well, since there is no one else I must, for I’m—done,—for!” Robert shuddered.
“Write to Mrs. Deborah—Morley—Fountain Terrace—London—can you remember?”
“Yes; yes.”
“My mother! Tell—her—I—died—like—a—soldier,—like father!” Shirtliffe shook his head to free his eyes of the blinding tears.
“Tell—her—” the voice was but a whisper now, “that I did not find—Debby Mason, and if”—here the boy rallied and made a last effort, “if you ever go near Plymouth, find a girl named Deborah—Mason and say that—by going—or writing to my mother—all will—be forgiven. You hear me?”
“Yes I hear.” The tears could no longer be shaken away.
“Where are you?” the groping hands found and clung to Robert’s, and the boyish mouth smiled as sweetly as if the dearest face on earth were bending over him. “Good bye,” he whispered, “you won’t forget—anything? and I can trust you?”
“You may indeed.” Shirtliffe bent and kissed the cold face as tenderly as a woman might have done. Reverently he clasped the slim hands over the still breast, and closed the lids upon the smiling eyes. In the future he was to tell a heart-broken mother in England of how her boy died, and he thanked God for that smile.