“Mother, mother!” he cried, suddenly clapping his little, wasted hands, “I see a violet—a pure white violet, in the dark leaves there. Oh, fetch it to me! It’s the first spring flower. The very first violet of all! Oh, mother, dear, I love them—the little sweet-smelling flowers.”
“Your eyes are quicker than mine, Willie; I shouldn’t have seen it, it is such a little thing. There it is, dear boy. I wish there were more for you.”
“Ah, they will soon come now. I am so glad I have seen the first. Mother, do you remember how I used to gather them at home, and bring them to papa when he was ill? He liked them, too—just as I do now.”
“I remember it well, dear,” Gabrielle answered softly.
“How long ago that time seems now,” Willie said; then, after a moment’s peace, he asked a little sadly, “Mother, what makes me so different now from what I used to be? I was so strong and well once, and could run about the whole day long; mother, dear, when shall I run about again?”
“You are very weak, dear child, just now. We mustn’t talk of running about for a little time to come.”
“No, not for a little time; but when do you think, mother?” The little voice trembled suddenly: “I feel sometimes so weak—so weak, as if I never could get strong again.”
Hush, Gabrielle! Press back that bitter sob into thy sorrowful heart, lest the dying child hear it!
“Do not fear, my darling, do not fear. You will be quite well, very soon now.”
He looked into her tearful eye, as she tried to smile on him, with a strange, unchildlike look, as if he partly guessed the meaning in her words, but did not answer her, nor could she speak again, just then.