THE LAST APPEAL
She sat waiting for him at the bench by the lilac bush. He was late, she thought—strangely late. She wondered why. It was dark. The night was close and hot. There was no breath of air stirring in the park. From time to time the lightning flashed. In fast lessening intervals came the thunder. Presently she caught ear of his step on the pavement—still distant: approaching, not from the church, but from the direction of the curate's home.
"And he's not running!" she thought, quick to take alarm.
They were inexplicable—these lagging feet. He had never before dawdled on the way. Her alarm increased. She waited anxiously—until, with eyes downcast, he stood before her.
"Richard!" she tenderly said.
"I'm here, mother," he answered; but he did not look at her.
She put her arms around him. "Your mother," she whispered, while she kissed him, "is glad—to feel you—lying here."