“Mother, here’s Mr. Kirkwood.”
Repeated several times, the words at length awoke consciousness. The dying woman could not move her head from the pillow; her eyes wandered, but in the end rested upon Sidney. He saw an expression of surprise, of anxiety, then a smile of deep contentment.
“I knew you’d come. I did so want to see you. Don’t go just yet, will you?”
The lump in his throat hindered Sidney from replying. Hot tears, an agony in the shedding, began to stream down his cheeks.
“Where’s John?” she continued, trying to look about the room. “Amy, where’s your father? He’ll come soon, Sidney. I want you and him to be friends again. He knows he’d never ought to a’ said what he did. Don’t take on so, Sidney! There’ll be Amy to look after the others. She'll be a good girl. She’s promised me. It’s John I’m afraid for. If only he can keep from drink. Will you try and help him, Sidney?”
There was a terrible earnestness of appeal
