We stepped inside. Confronting us was young Egbert Waverlee in his little nightie, his face swollen and disfigured from much weeping. He was trembling with the cold, for all the windows were open.
He held out his little hand. “Mr. Granton, I can’t wake muvver,” he said with quivering lip, “and she’s getting cold.”
He was a dear little lad, and often came to call with his mother on my mistress, but lately we had not seen much of them. I knew that her husband had gone to England, and she was feeling very sad about it.
My master strode quickly past the child to his mother’s room. She was not in bed, she lay all in a heap on the floor, beneath a large picture of her husband.
As my master lifted her in his strong arms, and laid her on her bed, a pencil fell from her cold fingers to the floor. He saw it, also a piece of notepaper with a crest on it, and presently he picked them both up and put them in his pocket.
Then he ran his hand rapidly over Mrs. Waverlee’s face, put it on her heart, and turned gravely to small Egbert: “How long has your mother been asleep, my boy?”
The little fellow ran to a table, and picked up a telegram. “I think this made muvver sleepy. She read it, then she walked about and acted like a naughty boy, for she scribbled on the walls with a pencil, then she kissed me, and lay down there and went to sleep. Please wake her up, Mr. Granton.”
Master read the telegram, put it in his pocket, then he said, “Come, boy, let us telephone for the doctor.”
“And leave muvver all alone?” said the child.
“She won’t wake, my boy,” said master hoarsely. “She is sleeping a sound sleep.”