"When Reggie gets to California he won't have to wear mittens or carry his muff or put on his fur coat," the mother continued, regardless of comment. "It will be bright and warm, so warm that Reggie may play out of doors all day long. There will be gardens filled with flowers. Mother's little boy may pick her a beautiful bouquet every morning."
"And Fadder Barry, too—and Maggie—and——" The sick boy was reluctantly dropping to sleep. The rhythm of his mother's voice and a satisfying story had worked a charm.
"In California the trees are full of birds that sing just like Dickey; only poor Dickey has to live in his cage. In California the birds are free to fly. Sometimes they fly over the great mountains; sometimes down to the deep, big ocean." The boy's dark lashes had ceased to quiver. "All day long yellow bees and bright butterflies play hide and seek among the flowers; at night they all go to bed inside of roses, tucked between pink and white blankets, just like little boys and girls. They sleep—and sleep—and sleep—just like Reggie."
The priest and Isabel looked into each other's eyes. For a moment they held the tiny fingers of the boy, then very gently each released a hand and moved from the bedside.
The nurse came forward, smiling. "You might both better go," she commanded. Without comment the boy's mother led the way. In the hall below, Pat Murphy stood in earnest conversation with his cousin Maggie. The girl looked frightened. Father Barry approached without hesitation. "What is the matter?" he asked.
The Irishman waited, confused. "I do be sint by Sister Simplice. Your mother—the old lady—she have just gone." He crossed himself.
"Tell me again," the priest commanded. "What do you mean?"
"Your mother—do be dead," Pat faltered.