Part 2 (1/2)
He waited a moment. ”Won't you let me help myself, then, mamma?”
The eyes of the mother moistened.
”Mamma,” the child repeated, gently shaking his mother's shoulder, ”won't you let me help myself?”
”There's nothing for you to eat, sonny, nothing at all.”
The blue child-eyes widened; the serious little face puckered.
”Why ain't there anything to eat, mamma?”
”Because there isn't, bubby.”
The reasoning was conclusive, and the child accepted it without further parley; but soon another interrogation took form in his active brain.
”It's cold, mamma,” he announced. ”Aren't you going to build a fire?”
Again the mother coughed, and a flush of red appeared upon her cheeks.
”No,” she answered with a sigh.
”Why not, mamma?”
There was not the slightest trace of irritation in the answering voice, although it was clearly an effort to speak.
”I can't get up this morning, little one.”
Mysteries were multiplying, but the small Benjamin was equal to the occasion. With a spring he was out of bed, and in another moment was stepping gingerly upon the cold bare floor.
”I'm going to build a fire for you, mamma,” he announced.
The homely mongrel whined a welcome to the little lad's appearance, and with his tail beat a friendly tattoo upon the kennel floor; but the woman spoke no word. With impa.s.sive face she watched the s.h.i.+vering little figure as it hurried into its clothes, and then, with celerity born of experience, went about the making of a fire. Suddenly a hitherto unthought-of possibility flashed into the boy's mind, and leaving his work he came back to the bunk.
”Are you sick, mamma?” he asked.
Instantly the woman's face softened.
”Yes, laddie,” she answered gently.
Carefully as a nurse, the small protector replaced the cover at his mother's back, where his exit had left a gap; then returned to his work.
”You must have it warm here,” he said.
Not until the fire in the old cylinder makes.h.i.+ft was burning merrily did he return to his patient; then, standing straight before her, he looked down with an air of childish dignity that would have been comical had it been less pathetic.
”Are you very sick, mamma?” he said at last, hesitatingly.
”I am dying, little son.” She spoke calmly and impersonally, without even a quickening of the breath. The thin hand, lying on the tattered cover, did not stir.
”Mamma!” the old-man face of the boy tightened, as, bending over the bed, he pressed his warm cheek against hers, now growing cold and white.