I don’t understand. It seems impossible. He was well enough last night. When did he die?

Mrs. Wharton.

At about seven this morning.

John.

But, mother dear, why didn’t you call me?

Mrs. Wharton.

I didn’t expect it. We’d been talking and he said he was tired and he thought he could sleep a little. He dozed off quietly, and in a little while I saw he was dead.

John.

Oh, my poor mother, how will you bear your grief?

Mrs. Wharton.