"No. Leon, I want to tell you something."
"Not to-night, mother. You must sleep to-night. To-morrow you may talk."
"Leon, when I sleep to-night, it will be forever."
"Do not talk so, mother. You are nervous. Perhaps the darkness oppresses you. I will turn up the light."
He did so, but the lamp only spluttered, flaring up brighter for a moment, only to burn as dull as before.
"You see," said the old woman, with a ghastly smile, "there will be no more light in my life."
"Indeed there will be."
"I tell you no!" She spoke fiercely, and summoned all her waning energy to her aid, as she struggled to raise herself upon her elbow. Then, extending a bony finger in his direction and shaking it in emphasis of her words, she continued: "I tell you I am dying. Death is here; in this room; I see his form, and I feel his cold fingers on my forehead. Sh! Sh! Listen! Do you not hear? A voice from the darkness is calling—'Confess! Confess!'" Then with a feeble cry she dropped back, moaning and groaning as in anguish.
"Mother! Mother! Lie still! Do not talk so." Leon was much agitated by the scene which had just transpired. The woman was quiet for a time, except that she sobbed, but presently she addressed him again.
"Leon, I must talk. I must tell. But don't call me mother."