"
"Well, bring hit back." She breathed heavily, and moved restlessly in
the old four-poster. As Peter stood up he saw that the patched quilts
were all askew over her shapeless bulk. Evidently, she had not been
resting well.
Peter's conscience smote him again for worrying his mother with his
courtship of Cissie, yet what could he do? If he had wooed any other
girl in the world, she would have been equally jealous and grieved. It
was inevitable that she should be disappointed and bitter; it was bound
up in the very part and parcel of her sacrifice. A great sadness came
over Peter. He almost wished his mother would berate him, but she
continued to lie there, breathing heavily under her disarranged covers.
As Peter passed into his room, the old negress called after him to
remind him to bring the light back when he was through with it.
This time something in her tone alarmed Peter. He paused in the
doorway.
"Are you sick, Mother?" he asked.
The old woman gave a yawn that changed to a groan.
"I--I ain't feelin' so good."
"What's the matter, Mother?"
"My stomach, my--" But at that moment her sentence changed to an
inarticulate sound, and she doubled up in bed as if caught in a spasm of
acute agony.
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