She thanked him, and closed her eyes.
But long before the hour had passed away, she was at Bertie's bed-side, with the little head nestled in her bosom, and the soft, thin hand clasped in hers; he was too weak to say much, but he had named her, had recognised her; that was enough, he would not die now, without giving her one loving look. Die? Yes, she felt he would die, so thin and wasted, so hollow his cheeks, so weak, so utterly weak; and then the sorrowing faces of those around, the still graver one, and pitying words of the old doctor. Ah! there was no need to tell her; her boy, her beautiful boy, must die. Oh! the anguish of her heart, surely if a fervent prayer could save him, he would be saved yet.
Anne stole away by and by to her husband, and found him busy unpacking a carpet bag.
"I have been home and back again, Anne," he said, "and made Mary put together the few things she thought you might require. I hope you will find them all right."
"Oh! Tom, I do believe you are the only devoted, kind husband in the whole world; how fortunate it was I married you when I did."
"Why so?" he asked.
"Because I see so many bad specimens of married life, that if I had waited until now, I would not have had you at any price."
"Oh, yes, you would," he said.
"Don't be so conceited," she replied, "remember you have never been drilled yet."
"I have my wife to be conceited of," he said, fondly; "and now Anne, tell me what news of the child?" She was grave in a moment.