pise me, who ever does, will you?" he
sobbed.

And it seemed to Lady Calmady that now she must have touched bottom in
this tragedy. There could surely be no further to go? It was well that
her mood was soft; that for a little while she had ceased to be under
the dominion of her so sadly fixed idea. In talking with Julius March
she had been reminded how constant a quantity is sorrow; how real,
notwithstanding their silence, are many griefs; how strong is human
patience. And this indirectly had fortified her. Wrung with anguish for
the boy, she yet was calm. She knelt down by the bedside and put her
arms round him.

"Most precious one--listen," she said. "You must never ask me such a
question again. I am your mother--you cannot measure all that implies,
and so you cannot measure the pain your question causes me. Only you
must believe, because I tell it you, that your mother's love will never
grow old or wear thin. It is always there, always fresh, always ready.
In utter security you can come back to it again and again. It is like
one of those clear springs in the secret places of the deep woods--you
know them--which bubble up forever. Drink, often as you may, however
heavy the drought or shrunken the streams elsewhere, those springs
remain full to the very lip."--Her tone changed, taking a tender
playfulness. "Why, my Dickie, you are the light of my eyes, my darling,
the one thing which makes me still care to live. You are your father's
gift to me. And so every kiss you give me, every pretty word you say to
me, is treasured up for his, as well as for your own, dear sake."

She leaned back, laid her head on the pillow beside his, cheek to
cheek. Katherine was a young woman still--young enough to have moments
of delicate shyness in the presence of her son. She could not look at
him now as she spoke.

"You know, dearest, if I could take your bodily misfortune upon me,
here, directly, and give you my wholeness, I would do it more readily,
with greater thankfulness and delight than I have ever done anything
in----"

But Richard raised his hand and laid it, almost violently, upon her
mouth.

"Oh stop, mother, stop!" he cried. "Don't--it's too dreadful to think
of."

He flung away, and lay at as far a distance as the width of the bed
would allow, gazing at her in angry protest.

"You can't do that. But you don't suppose I'd let you do it even if you
could," he said fiercely. Then he turned his face to the sunny wester