Augustus, taken completely by surprise, said nothing for a time, but his eyes traveled quickly to his mother's face, which was cold and white and rigid, then his voice rang out sharp and piercing—"Mamma—mamma—speak to me—I am here—Augustus—speak to me."
There was no response. Never having seen his mother thus, as she always devoted her undivided attention to him, he did not understand her apathy and inattention to his call; he made up his mind she was dead, and this man had killed her. That thought brought such a wave of anger and fury, that for all his frailness of body, he had for the time strength to release himself from William's clasp, and throwing both arms about her neck, he tried to lift her, repeating over and over, "Mamma,—Mamma dear, look at me."
The sight of the boy's suffering brought tears to William's eyes, and he said, "Your mother is sleeping; she cannot hear you. She will waken soon, and—"
"I hate you. She is not sleeping. She is dead, and you have killed her."
"Augustus, you will be sorry for such a speech. She is sleeping; gaining strength to make us both happy. Have you no greeting for your father, who loves you so dearly? I am proud to—"
"If you were very proud, you would go home, and not stay here where you are not wanted. Mamma—Dinah—Mamma is dead, and—"
"Be quiet, Augustus. Do not shake your mother;—you will? Then I shall be compelled to use force. I didn't want to do that, but you compelled me to. Sit quiet and I will wake your mother."
Anyone having the slightest degree of doubt as to the parentage of this child would have been quickly convinced, if they could have studied their faces as William and Augustus confronted each other; Augustus' excited and distorted face was a perfect miniature likeness of his father's. Eyes flashed into eyes. For all the seriousness of the condition, William thought, "What a perfect counterpart of my own temper. He favors me much more than his mother."
He needed no proofs this was his boy, and he felt a thrill of pride. He had an intense nature that no one understood. Most persons thought him cold and distant, while in truth, he possessed an unusually affectionate temperament, but was too proud to admit to anyone how he really hungered for love. All persons could not supply this want; the whole force of his nature had centered itself upon one object. She became his wife and no other woman had ever had power to sway his thoughts and life. He was regarded as austere and cold, yet could be influenced by this woman's smile, to do anything man could do, and the pitiful, angered face which looked into his was his child,—and hers.
For all time he must have second place in her heart, and the pleasure of wife and child should be his study from this moment. Such thoughts produced a very different expression upon his face, and he said tenderly and affectionately,