Peter, with her hand against his cheek, tried not to weep.  To conceal his terror and grief, and the shock of this thing come upon him in the middle of the night, to spare her the agony of witnessing his agony, was almost intuitive with him.  He braced himself, and kept his self-control.  She seemed to understand, for the hand he held against his cheek tried, feebly, to caress it.  It didn’t tire her to talk, apparently, for her voice was firm and clear.

“You’re a gifted child, as well as a good child, Peter.  But—­our people here don’t understand you yet, my dearest.  Your sort of brightness is different from theirs—­and better, because it’s rarer and slower.  Hold fast to yourself, Peter.  You’re going to be a great man.”

Peter stroked her hand.  The two looked at each other, a long, long, luminous look.

“My son,—­your chance is coming.  I know that to-night.  And when it comes, oh, for God’s sake, for my sake, for all the Champneyses’ sake, take it, Peter, take it!” Her voice rose at that, her hand tightened upon his; she looked at him imploringly.

“Take it for my sake,” she said with terrible earnestness and intensity.  “Take it, darling, and prove that I was right about you.  Remember how all my years, Peter, I toiled and prayed—­all for you, my dearest, all for you!  Remember me in that hour, Peter, and don’t fail me, don’t fail me!”

“Oh, Mother, I won’t fail you!  I won’t fail you!” cried Peter, and at that the tears came.

His mother smiled, exquisitely; a smile of faith reassured and hope fulfilled, and love contented.  That smile on a dying mouth stayed, with other beautiful and imperishable memories, in Peter’s heart.  Presently he ventured to ask her, timidly: 

“Shall I go for somebody, Mother?”

“Are you afraid, dear?”

“No,” said Peter.

“Then stay by me.  Just you and me together.  You—­you are all I have—­I don’t need anybody else.  Stay with me, Son,—­for a little while.”

Outside you could hear the wind moving restlessly, and the trees complaining, and the tide-water whispering.  The dark night was filled with a multitudinous murmuring.  For a long while Peter and his mother clung to each other.  From time to time she whispered to him—­such pitiful comfortings as love may lend in its extremity.

The black night paled into a gray glimmer of dawn.  Peter held fast to the hand he couldn’t warm.  Her face was sharp and pale and pinched.  She looked very little and thin and helpless.  The bed seemed too big for so small a woman.

More gray light stole through the windows.  The lamp on the closed machine looked ghostly, the room filled with shifting shadows.  Maria Champneys turned her head on her pillow, and stared at her son with eyes he didn’t know for his mother’s.  They were full of a flickering light, as of a lamp going out.

“‘Though I walk—­through the valley—­’” Here her voice, a mere thin trickle of sound, failed her.  As if pressed by an invisible hand her head began to bend forward.  A thin, gray shade, as of inconceivably fine ashes, settled upon her face, and her nostrils quivered.  The eyes, with the light fading from them, fixed themselves on Peter in a last look.