ONE NIGHT.
"Leon! Leon!"
The cry was low and weak, and the suffering woman fell back upon her pillow. The youth, though asleep, heard, and quickly responded to the call. He had been sitting in the large arm-chair, beside a rude wooden table, upon which stood a common glass lamp, with red wick, whose flickering flame shed but a dim ray across the well-thumbed pages of a book which lay open. While reading under such unfavorable circumstances, the boy had slumbered, his mind drifting slowly toward dream-land, yet not beyond the voice of the sufferer. She had scarcely repeated his name, when he was kneeling beside her, speaking in a voice that was tender and solicitous.
"What is it, mother?" he asked.
"Nothing," was the reply.
"Do you wish to drink?"
"No."
"Are you in pain?"
"Yes. But no matter."
"Will you take your medicine?"