Your mother is in her chair with her head upon her
hand--though it is long after midnight. The Doctor is standing with his
back toward you, and with Charlie's little wrist in his fingers; and you
hear hard breathing, and now and then a low sigh from your mother's
chair.
An occasional gleam of firelight makes the gaunt shadows stagger on the
wall, like something spectral. You look wildly at them, and at the bed
where your own brother--your laughing, gay-hearted brother--is lying.
You long to see him, and sidle up softly a step or two; but your
mother's ear has caught the sound, and she beckons you to her, and folds
you again in her embrace. You whisper to her what you wish. She rises,
and takes you by the hand, to lead you to the bedside.
The Doctor looks very solemnly as we approach. He takes out his watch.
He is not counting Charlie's pulse, for he has dropped his hand, and it
lies carelessly, but oh, how thin! over the edge of the bed.
He shakes his head mournfully at your mother; and she springs forward,
dropping your hand, and lays her fingers upon the forehead of the boy,
and passes her hand over his mouth.
"Is he asleep, Doctor?" she says in a tone you do not know.
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