mother's, and a little blood
began to steal from his lips. "He's dead!" said the mother, who was
herself passing away. "Oh, my boy!" and then feebly, with her
fast-failing strength, she raised him, after more than one effort, in
her arms, and pressed her lips to his twice, with all the passion that
death left in her. The wasted form of the child lay there, all pale and
withered, the straight brown hair was parted on his thin forehead; the
mother's uncovered breast, where his head rested, was white, and the
hands delicate; the raiment was luxurious; that head had not been reared
in the expectation of dying on a bed of rock. Ellen burst into floods of
tears, and wrung her hands as she stood by, looking on what she had
done. The woman lifted her eyes, and tried to form her lips into a
smile; she no longer felt any vehement passion, and the torment of
thirst was now only one of the pangs of death. Her eyes wandered to the
water, but when Ellen moved to fetch some, she stopped her.

"No; it was for him. He is at ease now. You did right. Don't grieve."

"Forgive me," said Ellen, kneeling down at her side.

"Oh yes! the poor precious babe suffers no more. I was mad; you said
truly in that. I nursed him at my breast till his lips grew dry even
there; we lived not far from your cavern, and I have seen you, and been
glad you had water. We had some. _We?_ Yes, is not my husband dead; and
my boy is dead too! See, there is blood on his face; wipe it away; he
will die else." Ellen's sobs caught her wandering attention. "I remember
now, you killed him; oh, good angel, guardian angel! you have killed
him, and there is only I to suffer. He is gone from this dear, dear
body; I wish it did not look so like him still--and it looks in pain
too--it looks thirsty."

Ellen hid her own face on the mother's shoulder for an instant.--Her
children had awakened at the noise of the pistol, and they were out of
bed and clinging around her; her sorrow roused theirs, and the sound of
their lamentation reached the dying woman's ear.

"There are my children crying. Alas! I thought they had all been dead."

"They are mine," said Ellen. "Yours are at rest, yours _are_ all dead."

"Thank God!" said the mother; and though the words were earnest, the
voice was faint; all the effort of nature was in them, but they came
feebly from her lips. After that, indistinct sounds and murmured names
only were heard; her breath came in gasps, and at longer and long