"Hush, Jane," he said again. This was precisely the point on which he did not care to hold present communication with his mother. He wished, if possible, to spare her; but the little girl was persistent.
"Is he dead, Bede?"
"Yes, child, he is dead."
"Oh, dear! And he can never kiss me again, or bring me new dolls! I broke the last one in two, and threw it at him."
Her eyes filled with tears. Bede, deep in thought, put away the little hands that had fastened on his arms.
"I liked him better than you, Bede. What made him die?"
"Bede! Bede! is that you?" called out his mother.
Bede had to go in. Mrs. Greatorex was on the sofa, dressed, her back supported by pillows. Her complexion was of dark olive, showing her Spanish extraction; a capable, kindly woman she had ever been in life; and was endeavouring now to meet the death that she knew could not be far off, as a Christian should. He stooped and kissed her. In features he resembled her more than any of her children.
"Do you feel better, mother?"
"My dear, you know that there can be no 'better' for me here. The pain is not heavy today. Have you just come up to town?"