"Don't be frightened, Harvey; go to sleep, dear—it's only me. I wanted to tuck you in once more, like I used to do when you were little. Oh, Harvey," and a half cry escaped her as she bent down and put her arms about him, "I don't know how to give you up—but go to sleep, dear, go to sleep."
But Harvey was now wide awake, clinging to his mother. "Don't go," he said, "stay with me a little."
There was a long silence. At last Harvey spoke:
"What are you thinking about, mother?"
The woman drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders and settled herself on the bed. "I think I'll tell you, Harvey," she said in a whisper; "it seems easier to tell you in the dark—and when Jessie's asleep."
"What is it?" he asked eagerly. "Is it anything that's hard to say?"
"Yes, my son, it's hard to tell—but I think I ought to tell it. Are you wide awake, Harvey?"
"Yes, mother. What is it?" he asked again.
"Do you remember, Harvey, the night you went to join the church?—and how I walked with you as far as the door?—and we went into the cemetery together? Don't you remember, Harvey?"
"Yes, mother, of course I do. But why?"