A fearful chill struck to his heart. What if she was dying--dead! Other boys' mothers sometimes died, he knew, but his mother--his mother! He tugged gently at one long, silken braid of hair that lay in his grimy hand like a golden rope, calling her in a voice that shook with fright.
The cry penetrated her dulled senses. It brought her back from the borderland of that far country into which she had almost slipped. Slowly, painfully, with the last faint remnant of her will power, she tried to speak--to answer that beloved, boyish voice.
"My--little boy----" The words came thickly, and her lips did not seem to move.
But it was her voice; she had spoken; she was not dead! He hugged her hard in wild ecstasy and relief.
"I'm glad--you came. I--can't stay--long. I've had--such hopes--for you--little boy. I've dreamed--such dreams--for you--I wanted to see--them all come true. If I can--I'll help you--from--the other side. There's so much--more I want to say--if only--I had known---- Oh, Bruce--my--li--ttle boy----" Her voice ended in a breath, and stopped.