“Then with a sob, he said:
“‘Nothing, Robin; nothing from me.’
“‘Why! didn’t you love my mother?’ the dying boy asked, the look of surprise for a moment mastering the look of death upon his face.
“‘Yes, he did,’ I said. ‘He loved her better than his life. He loves her still. Tell her so.’
“Again my eyes met those of Dr. West, but in the expression of his there was something which subdued all my pride, and brought a rain of tears upon my face. I did not longer refuse to let him take the child, nor did Robin refuse to go; and I leaned back in my chair sick and faint, while that great struggle went on between death and the little life whose lamp had burned so feebly.
“It was not long, but while it lasted I knew that Richard was praying softly, and that his words were soothing to the sufferer, who suddenly exclaimed:
“‘I see my mother! She’s like the picture in the frame! She’s waiting for me over there where the banks are so green! She is in heaven sure; but I don’t see my father anywhere! He is not there! Oh, where is my father?’
“That was the last; and two hours later, Robin lay quietly upon his couch, his golden curls all smooth and shining, just as Jessie had made them, his blue eyes closed, his tiny hands folded upon his bosom, his poor, crippled feet hidden from curious sight.
“That night I began to love Jessie Verner, and so I fancied did Dr. West. All her levity was gone for the time, and in its place there came a tender, motherly manner, which brooded over and encircled all in its careful forethought. Even Mrs. West became a very child in the hands of this girl of eighteen, while Richard, too, was brought within her influence. He was weary with his long ride of a hundred and thirty miles, but no one save Jessie seemed to think of this. She remembered everything, and when I would have worried Mrs. West with questions as to where Robin’s clothes were kept, she hushed me gently, going about the house in quest of what was needed, with as much assurance as if she had been the daughter instead of a perfect stranger. It was Jessie who made Richard lie upon the lounge in the quiet sitting-room; Jessie who arranged his pillows for him, covering him up with his travelling-shawl, and then brought him tea and toast she herself had made, and which he so much needed after his wearisome ride. I did not marvel that he followed her movements with eyes in which I read, as I believed, more than an ordinary interest; while at me, still keeping a useless watch by the dead boy, he seldom glanced. There was a pang at my heart which I suppose was jealousy, though I did not so define it, and I rather enjoyed thinking that Anna, and Robin, and myself, were in some way wronged by this new interest of Richard’s. I had cared for Robin to the last, but with his life my usefulness had ceased. I was not needed longer, I thought, and so next morning I went home, saying to Mrs. West and Richard, when they asked if I would soon be back:
“‘I shall attend the funeral, of course. There is no necessity for coming before. Jessie will do everything.’