ng, and I knew that
some great disaster had befallen. It seemed, somehow, natural that this
should happen, after my father's recent conduct. With a cold fear at my
heart, I threw the covers back, slid from the bed, and groped my way
across the room. As I fumbled at the latch, the whispering and sobbing
came suddenly to an end, as though those without had stopped with bated
breath. At last I got the door open, and looking out, saw half a dozen
negro servants grouped upon the landing. One of them held a lantern,
which threw slender rays of light across the floor and queer shadows up
against their faces. They stared at me an instant, and then, finding
their breath again, burst forth in lamentation.

"What is it?" I cried. "What has happened?"

My old mammy had her arms around me and caught me up to her face, down
which the tears were streaming.

"Oh, Lawd, keep dis chile!" she sobbed, looking down at me with infinite
tenderness. "Oh, Lawd, bless an' keep dis chile!"

"But, mammy," I repeated impatiently, "what has happened?"

Her trembling lips would not permit her answering, but she pointed to the
door of my father's room and her tears broke forth afresh.

"Is my mother there?" I asked.

She nodded.

"Then I will go to her," I said, and I had squirmed out of her arms and
was running along the passage before she could detain me. In a moment I
had reached the door, but all my courage seemed to fail me in face of the
mystery within, and the knock I gave was a very feeble and timid one. I
heard a quick step on the floor, and the door opened ever so little.

"Is it you, doctor?" asked my mother's voice.

"No, mother, it is only I," I said.

"You!" she cried, in a terrible voice, and I caught a glimpse of her face
rigid with horror before she slammed the door. The sight seemed to freeze
me there on the threshold, powerless to move. I have tried--ah, how
often!--to put behind me the memory of her face as I saw it then, but it
is before me now and again, even yet. And I began to cry, for it was the
first time my mother had ever shut me from her presence.

"Are you there, Tom?" I heard her voice ask in a moment. Her voice, did
I say? Nay, not hers, but a voice I had never heard before,--the voice of
a woman suffocating with anguish.

"Yes, mother," I answered, "I am here."

"And you love me, do you not, Tom?"

"Oh, yes, mother!" I cried; and I thank God to this day that there was so
much of genuine feeling in my