Yes, he was dying, poor child! He lay on the pretty, white bed; a grave-faced doctor was near; the nurse, Sarah Smith, sat by his side.
His mother went up to him.
"No better! No change!" she cried, wringing her hands.

"Oh, my God! must I lose him?
Must he die ?" He was my unconscious rival; his little life stood between me and all I valued most, yet I knelt and prayed God, as I had never prayed before, that He would spare him.

I would have given Crown Anstey twice over for that life; but it was not to be.
"Do not disturb him with cries," said the doctor to his mother; "he has not long to live." She knelt by his side in silence, her face colorless as that of a marble statue, the very picture of desolation, the very image of woe.
So for some minutes we sat; the little breath grew fainter and more feeble, the gray shadow deepened on the lovely face.
"Mamma!" he cried.

"I see! I see!" She bent over him, and at that moment he died.
I can never forget it--the wild, bitter anguish of that unhappy woman, how she wept, how she tore her hair, how she called her child back by every tender name a mother's love could invent.
It was better, the doctor said, that the first paroxysm of grief should have full vent.

All attempts at comfort and consolation were unavailing.
I raised her from the ground, and when she saw my face she cried: "Oh, Edgar! Edgar! it is my just punishment!" I did my best to console her.