“I suppose not.”

“Papa, I want Joyce.”

“I will send her home to you.  I am going for your mamma after dinner.”

“For mamma?—­oh, I remember now.  Papa, how shall I know mamma in Heaven?  Not this mamma.”

Mr. Carlyle did not immediately reply.  The question may have puzzled him.  William continued hastily; possibly mistaking the motive of the silence.

“She will be in Heaven, you know.”

“Yes, yes, child,” speaking hurriedly.

“Madame Vine knows she will.  She saw her abroad; and mamma told her that—­what was it, madame?”

Madame Vine grew sick with alarm.  Mr. Carlyle turned his eyes upon her scarlet face—­as much as he could get to see of it.  She would have escaped from the room if she could.

“Mamma was more sorry than she could bear,” went on William, finding he was not helped.  “She wanted you, papa, and she wanted us, and her heart broke, and she died.”

A flush rose to Mr. Carlyle’s brow.  He turned inquiringly to Madame Vine.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” she murmured, with desperate energy.  “I ought not to have spoken; I ought not to have interfered in your family affairs.  I spoke only as I thought it must be, sir.  The boy seemed troubled about his mother.”

Mr. Carlyle was at sea.  “Did you meet his mother abroad?  I scarcely understand.”

She lifted her hand and covered her glowing face.  “No, sir.”  Surely the recording angel blotted out the words!  If ever a prayer for forgiveness went up from an aching heart, it must have gone up then, for the equivocation over her child’s death-bed!

Mr. Carlyle went toward her.  “Do you perceive the change in his countenance?” he whispered.

“Yes, sir.  He has looked like this since a strange fit of trembling that came on in the afternoon.  Wilson thought he might be taken for death.  I fear that some four and twenty hours will end it.”

Mr. Carlyle rested his elbow on the window frame, and his hand upon his brow, his drooping eyelids falling over his eyes.  “It is hard to lose him.”

“Oh, sir, he will be better off!” she wailed, choking down the sobs and the emotion that arose threateningly.  “We can bear death; it is not the worst parting that the earth knows.  He will be quit of this cruel world, sheltered in Heaven.  I wish we were all there!”

A servant came to say that Mr. Carlyle’s dinner was served, and he proceeded to it with what appetite he had.  When he returned to the sick room the daylight had faded, and a solitary candle was placed where its rays could not fall upon the child’s face.  Mr. Carlyle took the light in his hand to scan that face again.  He was lying sideways on the pillow, his hollow breath echoing through the room.  The light caused him to open his eyes.

“Don’t, papa, please.  I like it dark.”

“Only for a moment, my precious boy.”  And not for more than a moment did Mr. Carlyle hold it.  The blue, pinched, ghastly look was there yet.  Death was certainly coming on quick.