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She put it on the table.
"You aren't glad!" he reproached her; but he trembled violently.
"Where hurts you?" she said, unbuttoning his overcoat.
It was the old question.
"I feel badly, mother."
She undressed him and put him to bed. He had pneumonia dangerously, the
doctor said.
"Might he never have had it if I'd kept him at home, not let him go to
Nottingham?" was one of the first things she asked.
"He might not have been so bad," said the doctor.
Mrs. Morel stood condemned on her own ground.
"I should have watched the living, not the dead," she told herself.
Paul was very ill. His mother lay in bed at nights with him; they could
not afford a nurse. He grew worse, and the crisis approached. One
night he tossed into consciousness in the ghastly, sickly feeling of
dissolution, when all the cells in the body seem in intense irritability
to be breaking down, and consciousness makes a last flare of struggle,
like madness.
"I s'll die, mother!" he cried, heaving for breath on the pillow.


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