The pale face of my mother haunted me. I flung myself on my bed and fell asleep. Just at twilight I heard a footstep approach my door. It was my sister.
"What shall I tell mother for you?" she said.
"Nothing," I replied.
"O, Alfred, for my sake and for all our sakes, say that you are sorry. She longs to forgive you."
I would not answer. I heard her footsteps slowly retreating, and flung myself on the bed to pass a wretched night.
Another footstep, slower and more feeble than my sister's, disturbed me. "Alfred, my son, shall I come in?" she asked.
I cannot tell what influence made me speak adverse to my feelings. The gentle voice of my mother, that thrilled me, melted the ice from my heart, and I longed to throw myself upon her neck; but I did not. My words gave the lie to my heart when I said I was not sorry. I heard her withdraw. I heard her groan. I longed to call her back, but I did not.
I was awakened from an uneasy slumber by hearing my name called loudly, and my sister stood by my bedside:—
"Get up, Alfred! Don't wait a minute. Get up and come with me, mother is dying!"
I thought I was yet dreaming, but I got up mechanically, and followed my sister. On the bed, pale as marble, lay my mother. She was not yet undressed. She had thrown herself upon the bed to rest, and rising again to go to me she was seized with heart failure, and borne to her room.