Her heart is slowly breaking as she listens to the
moaning, insistent cry which issues from those parched lips. All through
the days and nights of anxious watching, that cry has been ringing in
her ears, the call for "Richard, Richard, Richard."
That her mother is dying she knows full well, and how she longs for one
loving glance, for one word of affection, to carry with her in the
lonely years to come. But no look of recognition comes to the sightless
eyes and no word escapes the lips save that never ceasing cry of
"Richard, Richard, Richard." A white-capped nurse flits softly about,
but Jane pays no heed to her. The doctor enters and hold whispered
consultation with the nurse. Jane does not even glance at him. She is
tired of hearing him say the same old thing time after time: "While
there is life, there is hope." She knows there is no hope, though
everything possible has been done to save the precious life now ebbing
so swiftly. Thank God, they are no longer poor as when she was a child.
Her salary is a splendid one and she has been able to have the best
advice, the best care possible, for her dying mother. No, they are no
longer poor, but of what avail is money now? It cannot bring back the
days that are gone, the happy days before Richard went away. And they
were happy, then, so happy.
After her father's death, which had occurred while she was still a mere
child, she and mother had devoted themselves to the task of caring for
little Richard.
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