For a long time the two boys lay awake without exchanging any more conversation worth mentioning. They heard the clock strike three, and after that they may have slept. At any rate, the first thing they were aware of was the door of their room being opened by a softly rustling figure which they at once recognized as that of the trained nurse. She crossed the room and methodically lit the gas; then she turned and stood at the foot of Harry's bed, resting her hands lightly on the footboard. Both the boys noticed immediately how white her face was and how grave its expression.
They both said they were, and Miss Garver, after pausing a moment, as if to choose her words, said:
"Then get up and put on something, and come into your mother's room with me."
Without a word they rose and stumbled into their dressing gowns and slippers. When they were ready Miss Garver led the way to the door, and there turned toward them, with her hand on the knob.
"Your mother is very ill, boys. We are afraid--this may be the last time you will see her."
Dazed and silent they followed her into the hall.
The bedroom into which they then went was a large room at the front of the house, high of ceiling, generous of window space, and furnished for the most part with old mahogany furniture. It was a beautiful old room when the sun was pouring in through the great windows, and it was quite as beautiful, in a solemn sort of way, now, when it was dimly illuminated by one low-burning gas jet and one or two shaded candles. A low fire was burning in the grate, and its dying flames fitfully shone on soft-colored chintz coverings and glowing mahogany surfaces, giving to the room an air of drowsy and delicious peace. And in the middle of it all, on a great mahogany four-poster bed, curtained, after the fashion of a hundred years ago, Edith Wimbourne lay dying. She, poor lady, white and unconscious on her great bed, cared as little for the setting of the scene in which she was playing the chief part as dying people generally do; but we, who look on the scene with detached and appreciative eyes, may perhaps venture the opinion that, if a choice of deaths be vouchsafed us, we would as lief as not die in a four-poster bed, surrounded by those we love best, and with a flickering fire casting changing and fantastic shadows on the familiar walls and ceiling.