light how a deeper darkness was clouding his big sad eyes.
"Son—is you f'aid? Tell Si May-e."
"I'm cold, Si May-e"
"Does you want me to lay aside you on de bed an' warm you, son?"
Without waiting for him to say yes, she eased herself down close to him and put her arms around him. How thin he was, and so weak.
"Now, now," she whispered in his ear, "Si May-e is got you right in e arms. Don' be f'aid, honey.—Death ain' gwine to suffer you—no—all de worst is done over—shut you eyes, sonny, an' go sleep"
She wanted to sob, to scream out with grief, but she held herself still while his breath grew less and less. Death was wrenching his life out of his body.
"Sonny," she whispered. "Sonny," she called him again with her lips pressed close to his ear. He did not answer although he was warm and yielding. She tried to pray, but it was no use.
She choked back a sob. She must not cry yet. He might not be gone and would hear her. She held him tighter, closer in her arms, as if he were a baby again and sleeping too sound to be wakened.
