One evening—­we were quite alone—­she called me to come closer to her, in that faint, far-off voice of hers, which seemed already to be speaking from another world.  I was sitting so near to her that I could touch her with my hand, but she wanted me nearer—­with my arm across her, and my cheek against hers.

“My boy,” she whispered, “I am going.”

“Not yet, mother,” I cried; “not yet!  I have so much to say.  Stay with me a day or two longer.”

“If I could,” she murmured, every word broken with her panting breath, “I would stay with you forever!  Be patient with your father, Martin.  Say good-by for me to him and Julia.  Don’t stir.  Let me die so!”

“You shall not die, mother,” I said, passionately.

“There is no pain,” she whispered—­“no pain at all; it is taken away.  I am only sorry for my boy.  What will he do when I am gone?  Where are you, Martin?”

“I am here, mother!” I answered—­“close to you.  O God!  I would go with you if I could.”

Then she lay still for a time, pressing my arm about her with her feeble fingers.  Would she speak to me no more?  Had the dearest voice in the world gone away altogether into that far-off, and, to us, silent country whither the dying go?  Dumb, blind, deaf to me?  She was breathing yet, and her heart fluttered faintly against my arm.  Would not my mother know me again?

“O Martin!” she murmured, “there is great love in store for us all!  I did not know how great the love was till now!”

There had been a quicker, more irregular throbbing of her heart as she spoke.  Then—­I waited, but there came no other pulsation.  Suddenly I felt as if I also must be dying, for I passed into a state of utter darkness and unconsciousness.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH.

A DISCONSOLATE WIDOWER.

My senses returned painfully, with a dull and blunted perception that some great calamity had overtaken me.  I was in my mother’s dressing-room, and Julia was holding to my nostrils some sharp essence, which had penetrated to the brain and brought back consciousness.  My father was sitting by the empty grate, sobbing and weeping vehemently.  The door into my mother’s bedroom was closed.  I knew instantly what was going on there.

I suppose no man ever fainted without being ashamed of it.  Even in the agony of my awakening consciousness I felt the inevitable sting of shame at my weakness and womanishness.  I pushed away Julia’s hand, and raised myself.  I got up on my feet and walked unsteadily and blindly toward the shut door.

“Martin,” said Julia, “you must not go back there.  It is all over.”

I heard my father calling me in a broken voice, and I turned to him.  His frame was shaken by the violence of his sobs, and he could not lift up his head from his hands.  There was no effort at self-control about him.  At times his cries grew loud enough to be heard all over the house.