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She lifted him up, crying in a small voice:
"Oh, my son--my son!"
That brought him to. He realised her. His whole will rose up and
arrested him. He put his head on her breast, and took ease of her for
love.
"For some things," said his aunt, "it was a good thing Paul was ill that
Christmas. I believe it saved his mother."
Paul was in bed for seven weeks. He got up white and fragile. His father
had bought him a pot of scarlet and gold tulips. They used to flame in
the window in the March sunshine as he sat on the sofa chattering to his
mother. The two knitted together in perfect intimacy. Mrs. Morel's life
now rooted itself in Paul.
William had been a prophet. Mrs. Morel had a little present and a letter
from Lily at Christmas. Mrs. Morel's sister had a letter at the New
Year.
"I was at a ball last night. Some delightful people were there, and I
enjoyed myself thoroughly," said the letter. "I had every dance--did not
sit out one."
Mrs. Morel never heard any more of her.
Morel and his wife were gentle with each other for some time after the
death of their son.


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