He laid his cheek to hers.
"Mother, you are dying," he murmured.
"Yes, love, I am dying. It is no use calling any one. These little ones, Joel."
"I will take care of them, mother."
"You, my child! How should that be?"
"Why not?" said the boy, raising himself, and standing at his best height. "Look at me, mother. I can work. I promise you—"
His mother could not lift her hand, but she moved a finger in a way which checked him.
"Promise nothing that may be too hard afterward," she said.
"I promise to try then," he said; "that little sister shall live at home, and never go to the workhouse." He spoke cheerfully, though the candle-light glittered in the two streams of tears on his cheeks. "We can go on living here; and we shall be so—"
It would not do. The sense of their coming desolation rushed over him in a way too terrible to be borne. He hid his face beside her, murmuring, "O mother! mother!"