“Let us settle you down,” said Annie. “Perhaps nurse will be so late.”
“Ay,” said the mother—“try.”
They turned the clothes back. Paul saw his mother like a girl curled up in her flannel nightdress. Quickly they made one half the bed, moved her, made the other, straightened her nightgown over her small feet, and covered her up.
“There,” said Paul, stroking her softly. “There!—now you’ll sleep.”
“Yes,” she said. “I didn’t think you could do the bed so nicely,” she added, almost gaily. Then she curled up, with her cheek on her hand, her head snugged between her shoulder. Paul put the long thin plait of grey hair over her shoulder and kissed her.
“You’ll sleep, my love,” he said.
“Yes,” she answered trustfully. “Good-night.”
They put out the light, and it was still.
Morel was in bed. Nurse did not come. Annie and Paul came to look at her at about eleven. She seemed to be sleeping as usual after her draught. Her mouth had come a bit open.
“Shall we sit up?” said Paul.
“I s’ll lie with her as I always do,” said Annie. “She might wake up.”
“All right. And call me if you see any difference.”
“Yes.”
They lingered before the bedroom fire, feeling the night big and black and snowy outside, their two selves alone in the world. At last he went into the next room and went to bed.
He slept almost immediately, but kept waking every now and again. Then he went sound asleep. He started awake at Annie’s whispered, “Paul, Paul!” He saw his sister in her white nightdress, with her long plait of hair down her back, standing in the darkness.
“Yes?” he whispered, sitting up.
“Come and look at her.”
He slipped out of bed. A bud of gas was burning in the sick chamber. His mother lay with her cheek on her hand, curled up as she had gone to sleep. But her mouth had fallen open, and she breathed with great, hoarse breaths, like snoring, and there were long intervals between.
“She’s going!” he whispered.
“Yes,” said Annie.
