Hermia was in the habit of taking wine and grapes and whatever else Aunt Charlotte thought might tempt the sick woman's appetite, or help to keep up her strength; for during the last few weeks her illness had made great strides, and day by day it became more evident that the end could not much longer be delayed. Sometimes Hermia read to her; sometimes she simply chatted with her, telling her such items of local gossip as she thought would interest her. Sometimes Mrs. Varrel, when she felt a little stronger, would talk to the girl about her early life and things that had happened years before; but never once, till the end was drawing very near, did she make any mention of her son.
At length, however, there came a day when, after lying for a little space with closed eyes, she said:
"Do you know, Miss Hermy, what the one wish is I have now left in this world?"
Hermia smiled and shook her head.
"I might guess a dozen times without guessing aright. But tell me what it is you wish, Mrs. Varrel."
"It is to see my son Richard for the last time--him, you know, that was said to have gone wrong years ago."
"Surely that is a wish which ought to be very easily gratified," said Hermia. "I am, of course, assuming that you know where he may be found."
"Where he himself is I cannot say, but when I saw him last he gave me a certain address in London where he said a letter would always find him."
"Then let me write to him in your name," said Hermia, eagerly. "He cannot be aware how ill you are, or he would have been to see you before now."
But it was not till the following day that the widow could be induced to let Hermia write, and not then till she had given her promise not to reveal to any one Richard Varrel's address.