Tom," said Arthur gently, after another
minute, "do you see why I could not grieve now to see my dearest friend
die? It can't be--it isn't--all fever or illness. God would never have
let me see it so clear if it wasn't true. I don't understand it all yet;
it will take me my life and longer to do that--to find out what the work
is."
When Arthur stopped there was a long pause. Tom could not speak; he was
almost afraid to breathe, lest he should break the train of Arthur's
thoughts. He longed to hear more, and to ask questions. In another
minute nine o'clock struck, and a gentle tap at the door called them
both back into the world again. They did not answer, however, for a
moment; and so the door opened, and a lady came in carrying a candle.
She went straight to the sofa, and took hold of Arthur's hand, and then
stooped down and kissed him.
"My dearest boy, you feel a little feverish again. Why didn't you have
lights? You've talked too much, and excited yourself in the dark."
"Oh no, mother; you can't think how well I feel. I shall start with
you to-morrow for Devonshire. But, mother, here's my friend--here's Tom
Brown. You know him?"
"Yes, indeed; I've known him for years," she said, and held out her
hand to Tom, who was now standing up behind the sofa. This was Arthur's
mother: tall and slight and fair, with masses of golden hair drawn back
from the broad, white forehead, and the calm blue eye meeting his so
deep and open--the eye that he knew so well, for it was his friend's
over again, and the lovely, tender mouth that trembled while he
looked--she stood there, a woman of thirty-eight, old enough to be his
mother, and one whose face showed the lines which must be written on the
faces of good men's wives and widows, but he thought he had never seen
anything so beautiful.
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