she went on, when she had my hand
in hers. "Sleepy head! Lie down beside me, dear, and go to sleep. I'm
not afraid--not afraid, at all--to be left alone. Oh, you're so tired,
little lad! Lie down and sleep. For your mother is very brave--to-night.
And tell your father, Davy--when he comes and wakes you--and tell your
sister, too--that your mother was happy, oh, very happy and brave,
when...."

"When you fell asleep?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, in a voice so low I could but hear it. "That I was
happy when--I fell asleep."

I pulled off my jacket.

"I'm wanting to hear you say your prayers, Davy," she said, "before you
go to sleep. I'm wanting once again--just once again--to hear you say
your prayers."

I knelt beside the bed.

"My little son!" my mother said. "My--little--son!"

"My mother!" I responded, looking up.

She lifted my right hand. "Dear Jesus, lover of children," she prayed,
"take, oh, take this little hand!"

And I began to say my prayers, while my mother's fingers wandered
tenderly through my curls, but I was a tired child, and fell asleep as I
prayed. And when I awoke, my mother's hand lay still and strangely heavy
on my head.

* * * * *

Then the child that was I knew that his mother was dead. He leaped from
his knees with a broken cry, and stood expectant, but yet in awe,
searching the dim, breathless room for a beatified figure, white-robed,
winged, radiant, like the angel of the picture by his bed, for he
believed that souls thus took their flight; but he saw only shadows.

"Mama," he whispered, "where is you?"

There was no answer to the child's question. The risen wind blew wildly
in the black night without. But it was still dim and breathless in the
room.

"Mama," said the child, "is your soul hidin' from me?"

Still the child was left unanswered. He waited, listening--but was not
answered.

"Don't hide," he pleaded. "Oh, don't hide, for I'm not wantin' to play!
Oh, mother, I'm wantin' you sore!"

And, now, he knew that she would come, for, "I'm wantin' you, mother!"
he had been used to crying in the night, and she had never failed to
answer, but had come swiftly and with comfort. He waited for a voice and
for a vision, surely expecting them in answer to his cry; but he saw
only shadows, heard only the scream of the wind, and a sudden, angry
patter of rain on the roof. Then the child that was I fancied that his
mother's soul had fled while