An awful inarticulate groan came from the poor child’s dumb lips as they lifted him; but his hold on the tea-roses never loosened.
They carried him home, and into the house. Mrs. Stone was shocked and grieved; and she took her troubles noisily, as is the fashion of her class. Miss Endell, still fagging away at Lady Morgan, heard cries and shrieks, and dropped her pen and hastened downstairs.
“He’s dead! Johnny’s dead!” cried Mrs. Stone and Miss Endell, white and silent, drew near.
But Johnny was not dead, though he was dying fast. The butcher-boy had hurried off for a doctor and the three women, Mrs. Stone, her maid, and her lodger, stood by helplessly.
Suddenly Johnny’s wandering look rested on Miss Endell. A great sweet smile of triumph curved his mouth, lighted his eyes, kindled all his face. With one grand last effort, he put out the bunch of tea-roses, and pressed them into her hand.
And then, as if death had somehow been more merciful to him than life, and had in some way loosed his poor bound tongue, he stammered out the only words he had ever spoken—was ever to speak,—
“For you!”
At length the doctor came and stood there, helpless like the rest, for death was stronger than all his skill. The shock and the hurt together had quenched the poor frail life that was ebbing so swiftly.
Miss Endell bent and kissed the white quivering lips. As she did so, the tea-roses she held touched the little face.