“Mother, oh, mother!” the infinite tenderness in her voice smote into her own heart, and made Mr. Waring rise quickly and wait trembling with fear and a great awe, “mother, oh my darling—speak—touch me—love me, your child, Gwen—!”
“I will not let thee go unless thou bless me.” The picture involuntarily rose before Mr. Waring’s eyes as he murmured the words.
“Speak to me once, mother—I know everything, now—everything—do you hear, darling?”
But the mother still kissed and played with the trembling clinging fingers, and sang her soft old songs, and her eyes looked up full of sunny irresponsible happiness, and saw things of which we have not thought in our philosophy.
“Mother, oh my mother!”—but still she babbled on, smiling.
Mr. Waring came forward with bowed head, silent, in fearful reverence.
It was not for him to speak or interfere, the ground whereon he stood was holy ground.
“Mother, mother, mother!”
The babbling had now grown drowsy and low, and Gwen had to bend close to catch it, then it ceased, and the mother lay very still. Gwen turned in terror and saw her father.
“Help, help!” she cried, “she must speak—oh, God! she must!”