Ralphie, to whose help she had been so wonderfully guided, was her own nephew, Ralph's child.
Ralphie did not die, Olivia could not let him die. She watched over him with tireless, ceaseless care, keeping hungry death at bay.
"You have woke up at last! Woke up at last!" Ralphie would murmur again and again.
And Olivia, because it soothed him, would answer softly as she stroked his brow with a tender hand, "Yes, I have woke up at last, little Ralph; I have woke up at last!"
To herself, thinking of her young brother's thwarted aspirations and unhappy fate, Olivia cried passionately:
"If he lives—and he must live—I will give him all that was denied to poor Ralph. If he loves Art as Ralph loved it, he shall have sympathy without stint. He shall study, and have the best of teachers. He shall travel, and see all that is best in Art in the world. He shall have every opportunity of developing his talent. He shall be a great painter if it is in him to be one."
When Ralphie was at last free from his delusion, and was able to be told that the lady who had nursed him so pitifully and so lovingly through his illness was his own aunt, his wonder and rapture knew no bounds. It seemed strange at first to hear that he was never to go back to live with Nellie and Mrs. Clarke, and it was hard to part from them. But he was soon reconciled to the change. How could he help it, when it was so beautiful and happy a one? How could he help liking to be loved and cared for by so sweet and noble a lady as his aunt Olivia?
It need scarcely be added that Nellie and Mrs. Clarke were never forgotten, not even when little Ralphie had grown to man's estate, and had become a promising young painter, of whom it was confidently predicted that he would some day write R.A. after his name.
"You have woke up at last."
