"Yes."
He fell back upon her bosom....
There was no delay. 'Twas all done in haste. The night came. Gently the curate took the child from her arms.
"Good-bye," she said.
"I said I would not cry, mother," he faltered. "I am not crying."
"Good-bye, dear."
"Mother, I am not crying."
"You are very brave," she said, discovering his wish. "Good-bye. Be a good boy."
He took the curate's hand. They moved to the door—but there turned and lingered. While the child looked upon his mother, bravely calling a smile to his face, that she might be comforted, there crept into his eyes, against his will, some reproach. Perceiving this, she staggered towards him, but halted at the table, which she clutched: and there stood, her head hanging forward, her body swaying. Then she levelled a finger at the curate.
"Take him away, you damn fool!" she screamed.