“Poor thing; why didn’t she send for the doctor?”
“She thought she should be better soon,” I replied, laying Jennie down on the foot of the bed; and going softly to my mother, I gently kissed the pale forehead.
“Marston, promise,” and she opened her eyes.
“I do, I will, mother.”
“Dear me, Mrs. Howe, why did you not send for me? your husband told me this morning that you were sick; and as soon as we had dinner, I came right up.”
“I knew there was no help for me. If it was not for leaving my children—”
“Don’t be troubled, Mrs. Howe. It isn’t much that I have, but such as it is they shall have a part.”
Slowly the sun went down, and as the darkness rolled up the mountain father came home. He was steadier than usual, and for the first time he seemed sorry that mother was sick; took her hand kindly in his, and bent over the pillow and kissed her.
“Only get well, Mary, and I will stay at home always.” It was all he could say, the tears choked him.
“I am very sick, Robert. You will do this for the children,” and her eyes closed.