wasted fingers with so convulsive a grasp that his heart began to beat furiously.
“No—don't go—not until it is time for your father to come back. Isn't it strange that after all these years this is the first time that we should have a talk. Oh! so many times I've wanted you to come—and when you did come—when you were very little—you were always so frightened that you would not let me touch you—”
“They frightened me . . . .”
“Yes—I know—but now, at last, we've got a little time together—and we must talk—quickly. I want you to tell me everything—everything—everything. . . . First, let me look at you. . .”
She took his head between her pale, slender hands and looked at him. “Oh, you are like him!—your father—wonderfully like.” She lay back on the pillows with a little sigh. “You are very strong.”
“Yes, I am going to be strong for you now. I am going to look after you. They shan't keep us apart any more.”
“Oh, Peter, dear,” she shook her head almost gaily at him. “It's too late.”
“Too late?”
“Yes, I'm dying—at last it's come, after all these years when I've wanted it so much. But now I'm not sorry—now that we've had this talk—at last. Oh! Peter dear, I've wanted you so dreadfully and I was never strong enough to say that you must come . . . and they said that you were noisy and it would be bad for me. But I believe if you had come earlier I might have lived.”
“But you mustn't die—you mustn't die—I'll see that they have another doctor from Truro. This silly old fool here doesn't know what he's about—I'll go myself.”
“Oh! how strong your hands are, Peter! How splendidly strong! No, no one can do anything now. But oh! I am happy at last . . .” She stroked his cheek with her hand—the golden light from the great cloud filled the room and touched the white vases with its colour.
“But quick, quick—tell me. There are so many things and there is so little time. I want to know everything—your school? Here when you were little?—all of it—”
But he was gripping the bed with his hands, his chest was
