“Mamma—my mamma,” he whispered.
“Yes, it is time that we should go to your mamma,” said the doctor, and his voice shook.
And he took the boy by the hand and led him to his mother’s bed-chamber. Thorwald began to tremble—a terrible dread had come over him; but he clutched the flower convulsively, and prayed that he might not come too late. A dim, shaded lamp burned in a corner of the room, his father was sitting on a chair, resting his head in his palms, and weeping. To his astonishment, he saw an old woman stooping over the pillow where his mother’s head lay; it was Wise Marthie. Unable to contain himself any longer, he rushed, breathless with excitement, up to the bedside.
“Mamma! Mamma!” he cried, flourishing his prize in the air. “I am going to make you well. Look here!”
He thrust the flower eagerly into her face, gazing all the while exultantly into her beloved features.
“My sweet, my darling child,” whispered she, while her eyes kindled with a heavenly joy. “How can a mother die who has such a noble son?”
And she clasped her little boy in her arms, and drew him close to her bosom. Thus they lay long, weeping for joy—mother and son. An hour later the doctor stole on tiptoe toward the bed, and found them both sleeping.
When the morrow’s sun peeped in through the white curtains, the mother awoke from her long, health-giving slumber; but Thorwald lay yet peacefully sleeping at her side. And as the mother’s glance fell upon the flower, now limp and withered, yet clutched tightly in the little grimy, scratched and frost-bitten fist, the tears—happy tears—again blinded her eyes. She stretched out her hand, took the withered flower, pressed it to her lips, and then hid it next to her heart. And there she wears it in a locket of gold until this day.