"Come, Mercy," she said, "for the sake of your boy." And Mercy permitted herself to be led from the kitchen.
"So there will be no danger," she said. "I shall not leave my boy. Who said that? The doctor? Oh, good gracious, it's nothing. Only think, I shall live to see him grow to be a great lad!"
Her whole face was now radiant.
"It will be nothing. Oh, no, it will be nothing. How silly it was to think that he would live on, and grow up, and be a man, and I lie cold in the church-yard, and me his mother! That was very childish, wasn't it? But, then, I have been so childish since Ralphie came."
"There, lie and be quiet, and it will soon be over," said Greta.
"Let me kiss him first. Do let me kiss him! Only once. You know it's a great risk, after all. And if he grew up—and I wasn't here, if—if—"
"There, dear Mercy, you must not cry again. It inflames your eyes, and that can't be good for the doctors."
"No, no, I won't cry. You are very good; everybody is very good. Only let me kiss my little Ralphie—just for the last."
Greta led her back to the side of the cot, and she spread herself over it with outstretched arms, as the mother-bird poises with outstretched wings over her brood. Then she rose, and her face was peaceful and resigned.
The Laird Fisher sat down before the kitchen fire, with one arm on the cradle-head. Parson Christian stood beside him. The old charcoal-burner wept in silence, and the good parson's voice was too thick for the words of comfort that rose to his lips.