"Don’t be frightened, Harvey; go to sleep, dear—it’s only me. I wanted to tuck you in once more, like I used to do when you were little. Oh, Harvey," and a half cry escaped her as she bent down and put her arms about him, "I don’t know how to give you up—but go to sleep, dear, go to sleep."
But Harvey was now wide awake, clinging to his mother. "Don’t go," he said, "stay with me a little."
There was a long silence. At last Harvey spoke:
The woman drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders and settled herself on the bed. "I think I’ll tell you, Harvey," she said in a whisper; "it seems easier to tell you in the dark—and when Jessie’s asleep."
"What is it?" he asked eagerly. "Is it anything that’s hard to say?"
"Yes, my son, it’s hard to tell—but I think I ought to tell it. Are you wide awake, Harvey?"
"Yes, mother. What is it?" he asked again.
"Do you remember, Harvey, the night you went to join the church?—and how I walked with you as far as the door?—and we went into the cemetery together? Don’t you remember, Harvey?"
"Can you remember how, when we were standing at the baby’s grave, you asked me why your father never joined the church, and I said he didn’t think he was good enough—and you asked me why, and I said I’d tell you some time. Do you remember that, my son?"
"Yes," Harvey answered slowly, his mind working fast.
"Well, I’m going to tell you now. Your father was so good to me, Harvey—at least, nearly always. But he used"—she buried her face in the pillow—"this is what I’m going to tell you, Harvey; he used—he used to drink sometimes."
The form beside her lay still as death. "Sometimes he used to—we were so happy, till that began. And oh, Harvey, nobody can ever know what a dreadful struggle it is, till they’ve seen it as I saw it. For he loved you, my son, he loved you and Jessie like his own soul—and it was the company he got into—and some discouragements—and things like that, that were to blame for it. But the struggle was terrible, Harvey—like fighting with one of those dreadful snakes that winds itself about you. And I could do so little to help him."
She could feel his breath coming fast, his lips almost against her cheek. A little tremor preceded his question. "Was he—was father all right when he died?"
