I sprang up, ran to her, and knelt by her side. My mother often called me in this way, not because she had anything special to say, but because she liked to feel my firm young hand clasping hers.
She laid her fingers in mine now, and turned her soft brown eyes to catch the outline of my face.
“Mother!” I exclaimed with sudden passion, “in all the wide world you are to me the very sweetest, the dearest, the best.” Tears trembled in my voice, and almost choked me. I hated myself for giving way. My mother kept on looking at me. She softly patted the hand which held one of hers. It was not in her to express her feelings except by that gentlest of touches.
“And if you die, I shall die,” I continued. “Mother, you must get better—you must live, you must!”
“It is as God wills, my darling.”
“That is just it, mother. He would not have made us rich if He did not will that you are to live. Poverty and care were killing you. Now they have folded their wings, and gone away. You will always be rich in the future; you will always have the most nourishing food, the softest care, the tenderest love. Don’t you think you can nestle down into the love and the care, mother? Don’t you think you can try?”
“I do try, Rose. But poverty—poverty and trouble have left their mark. That mark has sunk deep, very deep. Still, I will try to live for your sake—indeed, for all your sakes. Don’t cry, my dear daughter.”
I wiped my tears softly away. After a time, I said in a voice which I tried hard not to be tremulous:
“Are you strong enough, mother, for me to say something?”
“Yes, my darling, certainly.”