continually audible, and sometimes it rose above the conversation at the
table. He noticed all these things. He became conscious, too, of a
strangely familiar smell. What was it? Ah, yes! Acetic acid; his mother
used it for her rheumatics.

Suddenly, magically, a great longing came over him. He must see his
mother, or his brothers, or his little sister--someone who knew him,
someone who _belonged_ to him. He could have cried out in his desire.
This one thought consumed all his faculties. If his mother could but
walk in just now through that doorway! If only old Spot even could amble
up to him, tongue out and tail furiously wagging! He tried to sit up,
and he could not move! Then despair settled on him, and weighed him
down. He closed his eyes.

The doctor and the nurse came slowly up the ward, pausing here and
there. They stopped before his bed, and he held his breath.

'Not roused up again, I suppose?'

'No.'

'H'm! He may flicker on for forty-eight hours. Not more.'

They went on, and with a sigh of relief he opened his eyes again. The
doctor shook hands with the nurse, who returned to the table and sat
down.

Death! The end of all this! Yes, it was coming. He felt it. His had been
one of those wasted lives of which he used to read in books. How
strange! Almost amusing! He was one of those sons who bring sorrow and
shame into a family. Again, how strange! What a coincidence that
he--just _he_ and not the man in the next bed--should be one of those
rare, legendary good-for-nothings who go recklessly to ruin. And yet, he
was sure that he was not such a bad fellow after all. Only somehow he
had been careless. Yes, careless; that was the word ... nothing
worse.... As to death, he was indifferent. Remembering his father's
death, he reflected that it was probably less disturbing to die one's
self than to watch another pass.

He smelt the acetic acid once more, and his thoughts reverted to his
mother. Poor mother! No, great mother! The grandeur of her life's
struggle filled him with a sense of awe. Strange that until that moment
he had never seen the heroic side of her humdrum, commonplace existence!
He must write to her, now, at once, before it was too late. His letter
would trouble her, add another wrinkle to her face, but he must write;
she must know that he had been thinking of her.

'Nurse!' he cried out, in a thin, weak voice.

'Ssh!'

She was by his side directly, but not before he had lost consciousne