She lay
like a girl asleep and dreaming of her love. The mouth was a little open
as if wondering from the suffering, but her face was young, her brow
clear and white as if life had never touched it. He looked again at the
eyebrows, at the small, winsome nose a bit on one side. She was young
again. Only the hair as it arched so beautifully from her temples was
mixed with silver, and the two simple plaits that lay on her shoulders
were filigree of silver and brown. She would wake up. She would lift her
eyelids. She was with him still. He bent and kissed her passionately.
But there was coldness against his mouth. He bit his lips with horror.
Looking at her, he felt he could never, never let her go. No! He stroked
the hair from her temples. That, too, was cold. He saw the mouth so dumb
and wondering at the hurt. Then he crouched on the floor, whispering to
her:
"Mother, mother!"
He was still with her when the undertakers came, young men who had
been to school with him. They touched her reverently, and in a quiet,
businesslike fashion.
Pages:
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818