“Ah! yes, mother; that is very good.”
He was closing his eyes, when a strong impulse that Gabrielle could not resist, made her rouse him for a moment, for she knew that he was dying.
“Willie, before you sleep, have you strength to say your evening prayer?”
“Yes, mother.”
Meekly folding the little thin white hands, he offered up his simple thanksgiving, then said, “Our Father.” The little voice toward the end was very faint and weak; and as he finished, his head, which he had feebly tried to bend forward, fell back more heavily on Gabrielle’s bosom.
“Good night, mother dear. Go to sleep.”
“Good night, my darling. God bless you, Willie, my child!”
And then they never spoke to one another any more. One sweet look upward to his mother’s face, and the gentle eyes closed for ever.
As he fell asleep, through the parted curtains, the morning light stole faintly in. Another day was breaking; but before the sun rose, Gabrielle’s child was dead. Softly in his sleep the spirit had passed away. When Bertha came in, after the few hours’ rest that she had snatched, she found the chamber all quiet, and Gabrielle still holding—folded in her arms—the lifeless form that had been so very dear to her.
There was no violent grief in her. His death had been so peaceful and holy, that at first she did not even shed tears. Quite calmly she knelt down by his side when they had laid him in his white dress on the bed, and kissed his pate brow and lips, looking almost reproachfully on Bertha, as—standing by her side—she sobbed aloud; quite calmly, too, she let them lead her from the room, and as they bade her, she lay down upon her bed, and closed her eyes as if to sleep. And then in her solitude, in the darkened room, she wept quite silently, stretching out her arms, and crying for her child.