One day, when I had not been there for three days and nights, I received, while at work in my shop, a sudden summons from home.  My mother, the little boy said, was very sick.  I hurried home in great agitation.  I could not bear the thought that sickness or death should reach my dear mother.  Mrs. Wood met me at the door, to say that a physician had been sent for, but that my mother was relieved and there was no immediate danger.  I hurried to her chamber and found—­Jane by her bedside.  For all my anxiety about my mother, I felt the hot flush spreading over my face.  It seemed so good to see her taking care of my mother!  In my agitation, I caught hold of her hand and spoke before I thought.

“Oh, Jane,” I whispered, “I am so glad you are here!”

Her face turned as red as fire.  I thought she was angry at my boldness, or, perhaps, because I called her Jane.

“Excuse me,” said I.  “I am so agitated about mother that I hardly know what I am about.”

When the doctor came, he gave hopes that my mother would recover; but she never did.  She suffered little, but grew weaker and weaker every day.  Jane was with her day and night; for my mother liked her about her bed better than anybody.  Oh, what a strange two weeks were those!  My mother was so much to me, how could I give her up?  She was the only person on earth who cared for me, and she must die!  Yet side by side in my heart with this great grief was the great joy of living, day after day, night after night, under the same roof with Jane.  By necessity thrown constantly with her, feeling bound to see that she, too, did not get sick, with watching and weariness,—­yet feeling myself obliged to measure my words, to keep up an unnatural stiffness, lest I should break down, and she know all my weakness!

At last all was over,—­my mother was dead.  It is of no use,—­I never can put into words the frenzied state of my feelings at that time.  I had not even the poor comfort of grieving like other people.  I ground my teeth and almost cursed myself, when the feeling would come that sorrow for my mother’s death was mingled with regrets that there was no longer any excuse for my remaining in the same neighborhood with Jane.  I reproached myself with having made my mother’s death-bed a place of happiness; for my conscience told me that those two weeks had been, in one sense, the happiest of my life.

By what I then experienced I knew that our connection must be broken off entirely.  Half-way work had already been tried too long.  Sitting by the dead body of my mother, gazing upon that face which, ever since I could remember, had reflected my own joys and sorrows, I resolved to decide once for all upon my future course.  I was without a single tie.  In all the wide world, not a person cared whether I lived or died.  One part of the wide world, then, was as good for me as another.  There was but one little spot where I must not remain; all the