He grew worse, and the crisis approached.

One night he tossed into consciousness in the ghastly, sickly feeling of dissolution, when all the cells in the body seem in intense irritability to be breaking down, and consciousness makes a last flare of struggle, like madness.
"I s'll die, mother!" he cried, heaving for breath on the pillow.
She lifted him up, crying in a small voice: "Oh, my son--my son!" That brought him to.

He realised her.

His whole will rose up and arrested him.

He put his head on her breast, and took ease of her for love.
"For some things," said his aunt, "it was a good thing Paul was ill that Christmas.