“She is dead, dear. Your mother is dead.”
“Dead?” he repeated. He did not seem to understand. “When did it happen?” he asked at length.
He saw that his aunt expected some show of emotion from him, but he was conscious of no emotion beyond surprise. With the years that had intervened since her going away, his mother's letters had grown less and less frequent. She had long since ceased to write him with any regularity, and when her rare letters did reach him, they had been a burden to him rather than a pleasure. He had not known how to answer them.
“Would you like to see Dr. Stillman's letter?” Virginia asked.
He shook his head.
“No; you tell me what he says,” he replied.
“It is very brief, it was posted over four months ago. She died in upper Burmah, where she said they were going in the last letter we received from her, you remember, dear?”
He nodded slightly.
“It seems that her death was very sudden, a fever of some sort. Aren't you very, very sorry, dear?”
The inadequacy of his emotion, as she felt it, was a shock to her. “Why, yes, of course I am!” he said. “I wish I remembered her better. You'd like me to show a good deal of feeling, wouldn't you? but how can I, when I don't remember her so very well? You're the only mother I've had, you've been a real mother to me! I suppose you feel it more than I do, and you're surprised at it.”