“Marian shall see mammy now,” he said solemnly, as he rose from his stool still holding the child to his breast.
“I’se so glad!” and she gave a little jump in his arms. “Good daddy!”
“But father’s little poppet must be quiet, and not talk, or cry.”
“No,” said Marian with childhood’s readiness to make a required promise.
The child had not seen her mother since the previous day, and the altered face upon the pillow was so strange to her, that she half turned away, as though to hide her face upon her father’s shoulder.
The gleaming eyes of the dying mother were turned wistfully towards her child.
“See, poppet; look at mammy!” urged the father, turning the little face towards the bed.
“Mother’s darling!”
There was less change in the mother’s voice than in her face; and the next moment the little dark head lay on the pillow, and the tiny, nut-brown hand was stroking the hollow cheek of the dying woman.
“’oo is my mammy, isn’t ’oo?”