LITMIR.BIZ

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      “I never laughed,” he said, “except as I'm always laughing.”

      They finished the game.

      That night Morel walked home from Nottingham, in order to have something to do. The furnaces flared in a red blotch over Bulwell; the black clouds were like a low ceiling. As he went along the ten miles of highroad, he felt as if he were walking out of life, between the black levels of the sky and the earth. But at the end was only the sick-room. If he walked and walked for ever, there was only that place to come to.

      He was not tired when he got near home, or He did not know it. Across the field he could see the red firelight leaping in her bedroom window.

      “When she's dead,” he said to himself, “that fire will go out.”

      He took off his boots quietly and crept upstairs. His mothers door was wide open, because she slept alone still. The red firelight dashed its glow on the landing. Soft as a shadow, he peeped in her doorway.

      “Paul!” she murmured.

      His heart seemed to break again. He went in and sat by the bed.

      “How late you are!” she murmured.

      “Not very,” he said.

      “Why, what time is it?” The murmur came plaintive and helpless.

      “It's only just gone eleven.”

      That was not true; it was nearly one o'clock.

      “Oh!” she said; “I thought it was later.”

      And he knew the unutterable misery of her nights that would not go.

      “Can't you sleep, my pigeon?” he said.

      “No, I can't,” she wailed.

      “Never mind, Little!” He said crooning. “Never mind, my love. I'll stop with you half an hour, my pigeon; then perhaps it will be better.”

      And he sat by the bedside, slowly, rhythmically stroking her brows with his finger-tips, stroking her eyes shut, soothing her, holding her fingers in his free hand. They could hear the sleepers' breathing in the other rooms.

      “Now go to bed,” she murmured, lying quite still under his fingers and his love.

      “Will you sleep?” he asked.

      “Yes, I think so.”

      “You feel better, my Little, don't you?”

      “Yes,” she said, like a fretful, half-soothed child.

      Still the days and the weeks went by. He hardly ever went to see Clara now. But he wandered restlessly from one person to another for some help, and there was none anywhere. Miriam had written to him tenderly. He went to see her. Her heart was very sore when she saw him, white, gaunt, with his eyes dark and bewildered. Her pity came up, hurting her till she could not bear it.

      “How is she?” she asked.

      “The same—the same!” he said. “The doctor says she can't last, but I know she will. She'll be here at Christmas.”

      Miriam shuddered. She drew him to her; she pressed him to her bosom; she kissed him and kissed him. He submitted, but it was torture. She could not kiss his agony. That remained alone and apart. She kissed his face, and roused his blood, while his soul was apart writhing with the agony of death. And she kissed him and fingered his body, till at last, feeling he would go mad, he got away from her. It was not what he wanted just then—not that. And she thought she had soothed him and done him good.

      December came, and some snow. He stayed at home all the while now. They could not afford a nurse. Annie came to look after her mother; the parish nurse, whom they loved, came in morning and evening. Paul shared the nursing with Annie. Often, in the evenings, when friends were in the kitchen with them, they all laughed together and shook with laughter. It was reaction. Paul was so comical, Annie was so quaint. The whole party laughed till they cried, trying to subdue the sound. And Mrs. Morel, lying alone in the darkness heard them, and among her bitterness was a feeling of relief.

      Then Paul would go upstairs gingerly, guiltily, to see if she had heard.

      “Shall I give you some milk?” he asked.

      “A little,” she replied plaintively.

      And he would put some water with it, so that it should not nourish her. Yet he loved her more than his own life.

      She had morphia every night, and her heart got fitful. Annie slept beside her. Paul would go in in the early morning, when his sister got up. His mother was wasted and almost ashen in the morning with the morphia. Darker and darker grew her eyes, all pupil, with the torture. In the mornings the weariness and ache were too much to bear. Yet she could not—would not—weep, or even complain much.

      “You slept a bit later this morning, little one,” he would say to her.

      “Did I?” she answered, with fretful weariness.

      “Yes; it's nearly eight o'clock.”

      He stood looking out of the window. The whole country was bleak and pallid under the snow. Then he felt her pulse. There was a strong stroke and a weak one, like a sound and its echo. That was supposed to betoken the end. She let him feel her wrist, knowing what he wanted.

      Sometimes they looked in each other's eyes. Then they almost seemed to make an agreement. It was almost as if he were agreeing to die also. But she did not consent to die; she would not. Her body was wasted to a fragment of ash. Her eyes were dark and full of torture.

      “Can't you give her something to put an end to it?” he asked the doctor at last.

      But the doctor shook his head.

      “She can't last many days now, Mr. Morel,” he said.

      Paul went indoors.

      “I can't bear it much longer; we shall all go mad,” said Annie.

      The two sat down to breakfast.

      “Go and sit with her while we have breakfast, Minnie,” said Annie. But the girl was frightened.

      Paul went through the country, through the woods, over the snow. He saw the marks of rabbits and birds in the white snow. He wandered miles and miles. A smoky red sunset came on slowly, painfully, lingering. He thought she would die that day. There was a donkey that came up to him over the snow by the wood's edge, and put its head against him, and walked with him alongside. He put his arms round the donkey's neck, and stroked his cheeks against his ears.

      His mother, silent, was still alive, with her hard mouth gripped grimly, her eyes of dark torture only living.

      It was nearing Christmas; there was more snow. Annie and he felt as if they could go on no more. Still her dark eyes were alive. Morel, silent and frightened, obliterated himself. Sometimes he would go into the sick-room and look at her. Then he backed out, bewildered.

      She kept her hold on life still. The miners had been out on strike, and returned a fortnight or so before Christmas. Minnie went upstairs with the feeding-cup. It was two days after the men had been in.

      “Have the men been saying their hands are sore, Minnie?” she asked, in the faint, querulous voice that would not give in. Minnie stood surprised.

      “Not as I know of, Mrs. Morel,” she answered.

      “But I'll bet they are sore,” said the dying woman, as she moved her head with a sigh of weariness. “But, at any rate, there'll be something to buy in with this week.”

      Not a thing did she let slip.

      “Your father's pit things will want well airing, Annie,” she said, when the men were going back to work.

      “Don't you bother about that, my dear,” said Annie.

      One night Annie and Paul were alone. Nurse was upstairs.

      “She'll

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