His mother had been reading the Bible to him, for she closed the book as we entered, and advanced to meet us.
'I was telling William,' she said, 'that we must manage to take him into the country somewhere, so that he may get quite well.

He is not ill, you know, but he is not very strong, and has exerted himself too much lately.' Poor thing! The tears that streamed through her fingers, as she turned aside, as if to adjust her close widow's cap, too plainly showed how fruitless was the attempt to deceive herself.
We sat down by the head of the sofa, but said nothing, for we saw the breath of life was passing gently but rapidly from the young form before us.

At every respiration, his heart beat more slowly.
The boy placed one hand in ours, grasped his mother's arm with the other, drew her hastily towards him, and fervently kissed her cheek.

There was a pause.

He sunk back upon his pillow, and looked long and earnestly in his mother's face.
'William, William!' murmured the mother, after a long interval, 'don't look at me so--speak to me, dear!' The boy smiled languidly, but an instant afterwards his features resolved into the same cold, solemn gaze.
'William, dear William! rouse yourself; don't look at me so, love--pray don't! Oh, my God! what shall I do!' cried the widow, clasping her hands in agony--'my dear boy! he is dying!' The boy raised himself by a violent effort, and folded his hands together--'Mother! dear, dear mother, bury me in the open fields--anywhere but in these dreadful streets.