"Weeks ago, my lady, when I saw that our little darling could not live I made all my arrangements to take the veil. God has again taken from me all I had on earth. When you, too, like me, are bereft of everything come to me."
"Passengers for the New York express, time's up!" rang through the hall.
For one minute we were clasped in each other's arms; her cold lips pressed mine for the first time. No word was spoken—she was gone—I was alone. I looked about me, dazed, confused. There was my hand satchel packed, a book and a letter, Mary's writing, on the bureau. Mechanically I picked them up, shuddering as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Was that pale, pinched face shrouded in crêpe mine?
"Dear Mother, where are you?" George's little arms were clasping my knees. "Dear Father sent me to take care of you till he comes back. He says he will be up in a minute for you and I must help you to get ready."
Always before our precious boy had called me "Our Mama" and his father "Our Papa," as he had been taught by his father. I sat down, taking him in my lap.
"'Our Mama' is ready, my precious boy," I said.
"Dear Mother, you've got me and Dear Father; don't cry—please, Dear Mother. I saw Mammy-Mary again but she shook her head at us and pointed up here to you and so Dear Father wouldn't stop her. Oh, she looked most as dead as you do, Dear Mother."
"Why do you call me differently, dear?" I asked.
"I don't know," he replied, "but the words 'Dear Mother' just came to me and choked up in my throat and so I said them out."