Mrs. Blount’s illness proved to be quite as alarming as John had feared.  The physician, from the first, held out very little hope of her recovery.  The strong, healthy woman was stricken, as if in a moment; it was the first real illness she had ever had, and it made fearful progress.  Yet her naturally iron constitution resisted desperately, so that, to the astonishment of all who saw her sufferings, she lingered on, week after week, with wonderful tenacity of life.  The summer faded into autumn, and autumn died into winter, and still she lived, failing slowly, each day losing strength, growing weaker and weaker, until it seemed as if she existed only by the force of will.

Of course it had long ago been found necessary to have some other dependence than the kindness of neighbors, and a stout Irish girl had been hired for the kitchen, while Mrs. Clark, a good, responsible woman, occupied the post of nurse.  From these persons, and from Isaac Welles, the rest of the story is collected.

During all these months of her illness, the two brothers had been unfailing in their devotion to their poor suffering mother.  Night and day they never tired, watching by her bedside for hours, and seeming scarcely to sleep.  Of course they were much together, but no words of harshness ever passed their lips.  When out of Mrs. Blount’s presence, they spoke to each other as little as possible; in her presence, there was a studied civility that might have deceived any one but a mother.  Even she was puzzled.  She would lie and watch them with burning, eager eyes, striving to discover if it was a heartfelt reconciliation or only a hollow truce.  It was the strong feeling she had that only her life kept them apart, which gave her power to defy death.  Perhaps on this very account his stroke was all the more sudden at last.

It was a dark, lowering afternoon in December when the summons came.  Mrs. Blount had been lying in a half-doze for more than an hour.  Her sons had taken advantage of this sleep to attend to some necessary duties.  The nurse sat beside the fire, watching the flames flicker on the dark walls, and idly wondering if the leaden-hued sky portended a snow-storm.  Her musings were broken by the voice of the invalid, very faint, but quite distinct,—­

“Nurse! nurse!  Call my sons.  I am dying!”

Mrs. Clark ran to the bed.

“Quick! quick!” cried Mrs. Blount.  “Do not stop for me.  You cannot help me now.  Call my sons before it is too late!”

Her tone and action were so imperative that they enforced obedience, and the nurse ran down-stairs with all speed.  She found no one but the hired girl in the kitchen, who said, in answer to her hurried inquiries, that both brothers were out, gone to bring in the cattle before the storm.  Mrs. Clark sent her in all haste to recall them, and then returned to the sick-room.  As she entered, the dying woman looked up quickly, her face clouded with disappointment when she saw that she was alone.  The nurse said all in her power to assure her that her sons would soon be there, but she could not allay the strange excitement into which their absence seemed to have thrown her.