“The old cry, Martin,” she answered, smiling.  “Well, you shall have your breakfast here, and I will wait upon you once more.”

I watched her furtively as she moved about, not with her usual quick and light movements, but with a slow and cautious tread.  It was part of my anguish to know, as only a medical man can know, how every step was a fresh pang to her.  She sat down with me at the table, though I would not suffer her to pour out my coffee, as she wished to do.  There was a divine smile upon her face; yet beneath it there was an indication of constant and terrible pain, in the sunken eyes and drawn lips.  It was useless to attempt to eat with that smiling face opposite me.  I drank thirstily, but I could not swallow a crumb.  She knew what it meant, and her eyes were fastened upon me with a heart-breaking expression.

That mockery of a meal over, she permitted me to lay her down on the sofa, almost as submissively as a tired child, and to cover her with an eider-down quilt; for her malady made her shiver with its deadly coldness, while she could not bear any weight upon her.  My father was gone out, and would not be back before evening.  The whole day lay before us; I should have my mother entirely to myself.

We had very much to say to one another; but it could only be said at intervals, when her strength allowed of it.  We talked together, more calmly than I could have believed possible, of her approaching death; and, in a stupor of despair, I owned to myself and her that there was not a hope of her being spared to me much longer.

“I have longed so,” she murmured, “to see my boy in a home of his own before I died.  Perhaps I was wrong, but that was why I urged on your marriage with Julia.  You will have no real home after I am gone, Martin; and I feel as if I could die so much more quietly if I had some knowledge of your future life.  Now I shall know nothing.  I think that is the sting of death to me.”

“I wish it had been as you wanted it to be,” I said, never feeling so bitterly the disappointment I had caused her, and almost grieved that I had ever seen Olivia.

“I suppose it is all for the best,” she answered, feebly.  “O Martin!  I have seen your Olivia.”

“Well?” I said.

“I did so want to see her,” she continued—­“though she has brought us all into such trouble.  I loved her because you love her.  Johanna went with me, because she is such a good judge, you know, and I did not like to rely upon my own feelings.  Appearances are very much against her; but she is very engaging, and I believe she is a good girl.  I am sure she is good.”

“I know she is,” I said.

“We talked of you,” she went on—­“how good you were to her that week in the spring.  She had never been quite unconscious, she thought; but she had seen and heard you all the time, and knew you were doing your utmost to save her.  I believe we talked more of you than of any thing else.”