LITMIR.BIZ

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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 live over Christmas,” said Annie. They were both full of horror. “She won't,” he replied grimly. “I s'll give her morphia.”

      “Which?” said Annie.

      “All that came from Sheffield,” said Paul.

      “Ay—do!” said Annie.

      The next day he was painting in the bedroom. She seemed to be asleep. He stepped softly backwards and forwards at his painting. Suddenly her small voice wailed:

      “Don't walk about, Paul.”

      He looked round. Her eyes, like dark bubbles in her face, were looking at him.

      “No, my dear,” he said gently. Another fibre seemed to snap in his heart.

      That evening he got all the morphia pills there were, and took them downstairs. Carefully he crushed them to powder.

      “What are you doing?” said Annie.

      “I s'll put 'em in her night milk.”

      Then they both laughed together like two conspiring children. On top of all their horror flicked this little sanity.

      Nurse did not come that night to settle Mrs. Morel down. Paul went up with the hot milk in a feeding-cup. It was nine o'clock.

      She was reared up in bed, and he put the feeding-cup between her lips that he would have died to save from any hurt. She took a sip, then put the spout of the cup away and looked at him with her dark, wondering eyes. He looked at her.

      “Oh, it IS bitter, Paul!” she said, making a little grimace.

      “It's a new sleeping draught the doctor gave me for you,” he said. “He thought it would leave you in such a state in the morning.”

      “And I hope it won't,” she said, like a child.

      She drank some more of the milk.

      “But it IS horrid!” she said.

      He saw her frail fingers over the cup, her lips making a little move.

      “I know—I tasted it,” he said. “But I'll give you some clean milk afterwards.”

      “I think so,” she said, and she went on with the draught. She was obedient to him like a child. He wondered if she knew. He saw her poor wasted throat moving as she drank with difficulty. Then he ran

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