“I am very sorry to see you in this state, mother,” said Ben, in a tone of sympathy. “When were you attacked?”
“Yesterday,” said Mrs. Harcourt, speaking with difficulty.
“Are you feeling better now?”
“No, Edwin. I have a presentiment that I shall never be any better.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” exclaimed Ben, really grieved, for the thought of all the benefits he had received from this woman, upon whom he had no claim, gave rise to a strong feeling of gratitude.
“I don’t think I am mistaken. I don’t think I shall live long. It is necessary that I should give you some directions in case of the worst. You see my desk upon the table?”
“Yes.”
“If I am taken away, open it and you will find a sealed letter addressed to yourself. You will read it at once, for it contains my instructions to you.”
“I will do so, mother.”
For a week Mrs. Harcourt lingered. She seemed to like to have Ben with her, and he showed the devotion of a real son. But on the eighth day she died very suddenly of heart failure, and Ben found himself alone in a strange land with a heavy responsibility laid upon him.