he weeks that they had lived alone
together, when his presence made her so content, but in a manner
infinitely more real and more embracing.

"Have you been sitting here all the time while I slept, dear?" she
asked. "Have you been waiting for me to come back to you?"

"Yes, and you have come," he said.

She looked at him, and the mother-love, which before had been veiled and
clouded, came out with all the tender radiance of evening sun, with the
clear shining after rain.

"I knew you wouldn't fail me, my darling," she said. "You were so
patient with me in the trouble I have been through. It was a nightmare,
but it has gone."

Michael bent forward and kissed her.

"Yes, mother," he said, "it has all gone."

She was silent a moment.

"Is your father here?" she said.

"No; but he will come at once, if you would like to see him."

"Yes, send for him, dear, if it would not vex him to come," she said;
"or get somebody else to send; I don't want you to leave me."

"I'm not going to," said he.

The nurse went to the door, gave some message, and presently returned to
the other side of the bed. Then Lady Ashbridge spoke again.

"Is this death?" she asked.

Michael raised his eyes to the figure standing by the bed. She nodded to
him.

He bent forward again.

"Yes, dear mother," he said.

For a moment her eyes dilated, then grew quiet again, and the smile
returned to her mouth.

"I'm not frightened, Michael," she said, "with you there. It isn't
lonely or terrible."

She raised her head.

"My son!" she said in a voice loud and triumphant. Then her head fell
back again, and she lay with face close to his, and her eyelids quivered
and shut. Her breath came slow and regular, as if she slept. Then he
heard that she missed a breath, and soon after another. Then, without
struggle at all, her breathing ceased. . . . And outside on the lawn
close by the open window the thrush still sang.

It was an hour later when Michael left, having waited for his father's
arrival, and drove to town through the clear, falling dusk. He was
conscious of no feeling of grief at all, only of a complete pervading
happiness. He could not have imagined so perfect a close, nor could he
have desired anything different from that imperishable moment when his
mother, all trouble past, had come back to him in the serene calm of
love. . . .

As he entered London he saw the newsboards all placarded with one fact:
England had declared war