“Sure, mama,” said I, in surprise, “I’m sittin’ right by the bed!”
“Ah, Davy!” she whispered, happily, stretching out a hand to touch me. “My little son!”
“An’ I been sittin’ here all the time!” said I.
“All the time?” she said. “But I’ve been so sick, dear, I haven’t noticed much. And ’tis so dark.”
“No, mum; ’tis not so very. ’Tis thick, but ’tis not so very dark. ’Tis not lamp-lightin’ time yet.”
“How strange!” she muttered. “It seems so very dark. Ah, well! Do you go out for a run in the air, dear, while your mother sleeps. I’m thinking I’ll be better—when I’ve had a little sleep.”
My sister busied herself with the pillows and coverlet; and she made all soft and neat, that my mother might rest the better for it.
“You’re so tender with me, dear,” said my mother “Every day I bless God for my dear daughter.”
My sister kissed my mother. “Hush!” she said. “Do you go t’ sleep, now, little mother. Twill do you good.”
“Yes,” my mother sighed, “for I’m—so very—tired.”