can be done."

But I was not listening. There was room for only one thought in my brain.

"And my mother is with him!" I cried, and my heart seemed bursting.

He held me tight against him, and I felt a tear fall upon my head. This
was the trial, then--for him no less than me.

"Yes, she is with him, Tom. She believes it her duty, and will allow no
one else to enter. Ah, she has not been found wanting. Dear heart, I knew
she would never be."

Of what came after, I have no distinct remembrance. Mr. Fontaine told me
that my mother wished me to go home with him, so that I might be quite
beyond reach of the infection. He had agreed that this would be the
wisest course, and so, too stricken at heart to resist, I was bundled
into his chaise with a chest of my clothes, and driven away through the
crowd of sobbing negroes to the little house at Charles City where he and
his sister lived.

The week that followed dwells in my memory as some tremendous nightmare,
lightened here and there by the unvarying kindness of my friend and of
his sister. I wandered along the river and gazed out across the changing
water for hours at a time, with eyes that saw nothing of what was before
them. Often I remained thus until some one came for me and led me gently
back into the house. My brain seemed numbed, and no longer capable of
thought. Mr. Fontaine took charge of our affairs, doing everything that
could be done, keeping the frightened negroes to their work, and praying
with my mother through the tight-closed door. He had no fear, and would
have entered and prayed with her beside the bed, had she permitted.

I was sitting by the river-bank one evening, watching the shadows
lengthen across the water, when I heard a step behind me, and turned to
see my friend approaching. A glance at his face brought me to my feet.

"What is it?" I cried, and ran to him.

He took my hands in his.

"Your father died an hour ago, Tom," he said, and smoothed my hair in the
familiar way which seemed to comfort him as well as me.

"And my mother?" I asked, for it was of her I was thinking.

"Your mother is ill, too," he said, and placed his arms about me and held
me close, "but with God's grace we will save her life."

But I had started from him.

"If she is ill," I cried, "I must go to her. She will want me."

He shook his head, still holding to my hands.

"No, she does not want you, Tom," he said. "The one thing that will make
her happy is the tho