CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE SCHOOL-BELL.

To me the thought of death is terrible,
Having such hold of life; to you it is not
More than the sudden lifting of a latch;
Nought but a step into the open air,
Out of a tent already luminous
With light that shines through its transparent fold.

Longfellow's Golden Legend.

"I've got a good piece of news for you, Master Daubeny," said the kind
old school-nurse.

"What is it? is my mother here?" he said eagerly. "O! let her come and
see me."

She was at the door, and the next moment his arms were round her neck in
a long embrace. "Darling, darling mother," he exclaimed, "now I shall
be happy, now that you have come. Nay, you mustn't cry, mother," he
said, as he felt one of her fast flowing tears upon his forehead;
"you've come to help me in bearing up."

"Dearest Johnny," she said, "I trust yet that God will spare the widow's
only son; He Who raised the son of the widow of Nain will pity us."

"His ways are not ours, mother dear; I do not think that I shall
recover. My past life hangs before me like a far-off picture already; I
lie and look at it almost as if it were not mine, and my mind is quite
at peace; only sometimes my head is all confused."

"God's will be done, Johnny," sobbed the poor lady. "But I do not think
I can live, if you be taken from me."

"Taken--but not for ever, mother," he said, looking up into her face.

"O Johnny, _why, why_ did you not spare yourself, and work less? It is
the work which has killed you."

"Only because it fell heavier on me than on other boys. They got
through it quickly, but I was not so clever, and it cost me more to do
my duty. I tried to do it, mother dear, and God helped me. All is well
as it is. O my head, my head!"

"You must rest, darling. My visit and talk has excited you. Try to go
to sleep."

"Then sit there, mother, opposite me, so that I may see you when I
wake."

She kissed his aching brow, and sat down, while he composed himself to
rest. She was a lady of about fifty, with bands of silver hair smoothed
over her calm forehead, and in appearance not unlike her son. But there
was something very sweet and matronly about her look, and it was
impossible to see her without feeling the respect and honour which was
her due.

And she sat there, by the bedside, looking upon her only son, the boy
who had been the light of her life; and she knew that he was dying--she
knew that he was f