"I will do so, Michael."
The child sunk gradually. Noémi had to conceal from Timar that Dodi was ill, and constantly to invent stories about him, for his father constantly asked for him. "Does Dodi play with his little man?"
"Oh, yes, he is always playing with him" ( . . . with that fearful skeleton!).
"Does he talk of me?"
"He loves to talk of you" ( . . . he will do so soon when he is with the good God).
"Take him this kiss from me;" and Noémi bore to her child the parting kiss of his father.
Another day dawned. The awakening invalid found himself alone in the room. Noémi had watched all night by her child: she had looked on his death-struggle, and pressed her tears back into her heart; why had it not burst? When she went in to Michael she smiled again.
"Were you with Dodi?" asked the sick man.
"Yes, I have been with him."
"Is he asleep now?"