said--"never again!"

"No; you will never leave me alone again here," she whispered. "Oh, how
I have missed you, my boy!"

I made her sit down on the sofa, and sat beside her, while she caressed
my hand with her thin and wasted fingers.

I must put an end to this, if I was to maintain my self-control.

"Mother," I said, "you forget that I have been on the sea all night, and
have not had my breakfast yet."

"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 cause