“What horrid things?” he asked, abruptly and coldly, as though just waking from a sleep.
“Oh, but you’re heartless! I believe you don’t care for the dying no more than you do for the living. I believe you’ve slept all the time I was talking!”
“If I didn’t care about her being nursed every minute, would I ask you to go back, when I know you’re tired? They are nothing to me, and you are my mother! Would I ever ask you to go, if I could sleep while you are talking about her? Will you go?”
“Yes, yes; I mean to go. I’m glad you have some feeling in you. But you—you look like a ghost! I declare you look frightful! Your face is as pale! and your eyes stare out of your head so! Son! son! what’s the use of killing yourself just to get a little learning? What manner of good can come of it? Somebody, oh, the doctor, Dr. Williams, was asking me to-day if you was writing a book. I told him no; but I didn’t tell him what I thought about it—that you had as good as promised me that you would be a preacher. I shall be so proud of you then. These fiddling poets! I like a man, as long as he is in the world, to be of some use in it.”
“Don’t get in a passion, mother. I am no poet. No son of yours will disgrace you by ever publishing a book.” He spoke with frantic energy.
“But it’s getting late. I will now go with you.”
“No, no, you won’t—I’ll not hear of it, you look a’most as bad as Ella does.”
“Do you call her ‘Ella’ over there?”
“No—you know I haven’t much acquaintance with ’em.”
“Then I wouldn’t condescend to call her so here,” was the bitter rebuke.