“I am very grateful to you for the service you have rendered my little sister,” said Rex, extending his hand to the little veiled figure standing in the shade of the orange-trees. “Allow me to thank you for it.”

Poor Daisy! she dared not speak lest the tones of her voice should betray her identity.

“I must for evermore be as one dead to him,” she whispered to her wildly beating heart.

Rex wondered why the little, fluttering, cold fingers dropped so quickly from his clasp; he thought he heard a stifled sigh; the slight, delicate form looked strangely familiar, yet he could see it was neither Eve, Gerty, nor Bess. She bowed her head with a few low-murmured words he scarcely caught, and the next instant the little figure was lost to sight in the darkness beyond.

“Who was that, Birdie?” he asked, scarcely knowing what prompted the question.

Alas for the memory of childhood! poor little Birdie had quite forgotten.

“It is so stupid of me to forget, but when I see her again I shall ask her and try and remember it then.”

“It is of no consequence,” said Rex, raising the little figure in his arms and bearing her quickly up the graveled path to the house.

As he neared the house Rex observed there was great confusion among the servants; there was a low murmur of voices and lights moving to and fro.

“What is the matter, Parker?” cried Rex, anxiously, of the servant who came out to meet him.

“Mrs. Lyon is very ill, sir,” he answered, gravely; “it 98 is a paralytic stroke the doctor says. We could not find you, so we went for Doctor Elton at once.”

It seemed but a moment since he had parted from his mother in the gathering twilight, to search for Birdie. His mother very ill––dear Heaven! he could scarcely realize it.

“Oh, take me to mother, Rex!” cried Birdie, clinging to him piteously. “Oh, it can not, it cannot be true; take me to her, Rex!”

The sound of hushed weeping fell upon his ears and seemed to bring to him a sense of what was happening. Like one in a dream he hurried along the corridor toward his mother’s boudoir. He heard his mother’s voice calling for him.

“Where is my son?” she moaned.

He opened the door quietly and went in. Her dark eyes opened feebly as Rex entered, and she held out her arms to him.

“Oh, my son, my son!” she cried; “thank Heaven you are here!”

She clung to him, weeping bitterly. It was the first time he had ever seen tears in his mother’s eyes, and he was touched beyond words.

“It may not be as bad as you think, mother,” he said; “there is always hope while there is life.”

She raised her face to her son’s, and he saw there was a curious whiteness upon it.

The large, magnificent room was quite in shadow; soft shadows filled the corners; the white statuettes gleamed in the darkness; one blind was half drawn, and through it came the soft, sweet moonlight. A large night-lamp stood upon the table, but it was carefully shaded. Faint glimmers of light fell upon the bed, with its costly velvet hangings, and on the white, drawn face that lay on the pillows, with the gray shadow of death stealing softly over it––the faint, filmy look that comes only into eyes that death has begun to darken.

His mother had never been demonstrative; she had never cared for many caresses; but now her son’s love seemed her only comfort.

“Rex,” she said, clinging close to him, “I feel that I am dying. Send them all away––my hours are numbered––a mist rises before my face, Rex. Oh, dear Heaven! I can not see you––I have lost my sight––my eyes grow dim.”

A cry came from Rex’s lips.

“Mother, dear mother,” he cried, “there is no pain in this world I would not undergo for your dear sake!” he cried, kissing the stiffening lips.

She laid her hands on the handsome head bent before her.

“Heaven bless you, my son,” she murmured. “Oh, Rex, my hope and my trust are in you!” she wailed. “Comfort me, calm me––I have suffered so much. I have one last dying request to make of you, my son. You will grant my prayer, Rex? Surely Heaven would not let you refuse my last request!”

Rex clasped her in his arms. This was his lady-mother, whose proud, calm, serene manner had always been perfect––whose fair, proud face had never been stained with tears––whose lips had never been parted with sighs or worn with entreaties.

It was so new to him, so terrible in its novelty, he could hardly understand it. He threw his arms around her, and clasped her closely to his breast.

“My dearest mother,” he cried, “you know I would die for you if dying would benefit you. Why do you doubt my willingness to obey your wishes, whatever they may be? Whatever I can do to comfort you I will surely do it, mother.”

“Heaven bless you, Rex!” she cried, feebly caressing his face and his bands. “You make death a thousand-fold more easy to bear, my darling, only son!”

“My dear sir,” said the doctor, bending over him gently, “I must remind you your mother’s life hangs on a thread. The least excitement, the least agitation, and she will be dead before you can call for help. No matter what she may say to you, listen and accede.”

Rex bent down and kissed the pale, agitated face on the pillow.

“I will be careful of my dearest mother. Surely you may trust me,” he said.

“I do,” replied the doctor, gravely. “Your mother’s life, for the present, lies in your hands.”

“Is it true, Rex, that I must die?” she gasped. The look of anguish on his face answered her. “Rex,” she whispered, clinging like a child to his strong white hands, “my hope and trust are in you, my only son. I am going to put your love to the test, my boy. I beseech you to say ‘Yes’ to the last request I shall ever make of you. Heaven knows, Rex, I would not mention it now, but I am dying––yes, dying, Rex.”

“You need not doubt it, mother,” he replied, earnestly, “I can not refuse anything you may ask! Why should I?”

But, as he spoke, he had not the faintest idea of what he would be asked to do. As he spoke his eyes caught the gleam of the moonlight through the window, and his thoughts traveled 100 for one moment to the beloved face he had seen in the moonlight––how fair and innocent the face was as they parted on the night they were wed! The picture of that lonely young girl-wife, going home by herself, brought tears to his eyes.

“Was there ever a fate so cruel?” he said to himself. “Who ever lost a wife on his wedding-day?”

Surely there had never been a love-dream so sweet, so passionate, or so bright as his. Surely there had never been one so rudely broken.

Poor little Daisy––his wife––lying cold and still in death. Even his mother was to be taken from him.

The feeble pressure of his mother’s hands recalled his wandering thoughts.

“Listen, Rex,” she whispered, faintly, “my moments are precious.”

He felt his mother’s arms clasp closely round his neck.

“Go on, mother,” he said, gently.

“Rex, my son,” she whispered, gaspingly, “I could not die and leave the words unspoken. I want my race to live long generations after me. Your poor little lame sister will go unmarried to the grave; and now all rests with you, my only son. You understand me, Rex; you know the last request I have to ask.”

For the first time a cry came to Rex’s lips; her words pierced like a sword in his heart.

“Surely, mother, you do not mean––you do not think I could ever––”

The very horror of the thought seemed to completely unman him.

“You will marry again,” she interrupted, finishing the sentence he could not utter. “Remember, she whom you loved is dead. I would not have asked this for long years to come, but I am dying––I must speak now.”

“My God, mother!” he cried out in agony, “ask anything but that. My heart is torn and bleeding; have pity on me, have pity!”

Great drops of agony started on his brow; his whole frame shook with agitation.

He tried to collect himself, to gather his scattered thoughts, to realize the full import of the words she had spoken.

Marry again! Heaven pity him! How could he harbor such a thought for a single instant, when he thought of the pale, cold face of little Daisy––his fair young bride––whom he so madly loved, lying pale and still in death, like a broken lily, 101 down in the dark, bottomless pit which never yielded up its terrible secrets!

“Rex,” wailed his mother, feebly, gazing into his eyes with a suspense heart-breaking to witness, “don’t refuse me this the first prayer I had ever made. If you mean to refuse it would be kinder far to plunge a dagger into my heart and let me die at once. You can not refuse.” One trembling hand she laid on his breast, and with the other caressed his face. “You are good and gentle of heart, Rex; the prayers of your dying mother will touch you. Answer me, my son; tell me my proud old race shall not die with you, and I will rest calmly in my grave.”

The cold night-wind fanned his pallid brow, and the blood coursed through his veins like molten lead. He saw the tears coursing down her pale, withered cheeks. Ah, God! was it brave to speak the words which must bring despair and death to her? Was it filial to send his mother to her grave with sorrow and sadness in her heart? Could he thrust aside his mother’s loving arms and resist her dying prayer? Heaven direct him, he was so sorely tried.

“Comfort me, Rex,” she whispered, “think of how I have loved you since you were a little child, how I used to kiss your rosy little face and dream what your future would be like. It comes back to me now while I plead to you with my fast-fleeting breath. Oh, answer me, Rex.”

All the love and tenderness of the young man’s impulsive heart was stirred by the words. Never was a man so fearfully tried. Rex’s handsome face had grown white with emotion; deep shadows came into his eyes. Ah, what could it matter now? His hopes were dead, his heart crushed, yet how could he consent?

“Oh, Heaven, Rex!” she cried, “what does that look on your face mean? What is it?”

The look of terror on her face seemed to force the mad words from his lips, the magnetic gaze seemed to hold him spellbound. He bent over hie mother and laid his fresh, brave young face on the cold, white face of his dying mother.

“Promise me, Rex,” she whispered.

“I promise, mother!” he cried. “God help me; if it will make your last moments happier, I consent.”

“Heaven bless you, my noble son!” whispered the quivering voice. “You have taken the bitter sting from death, and filled my heart with gratitude. Some day you will thank me for it, Rex.”

They were uttered! Oh, fatal words! Poor Rex, wedded 102 and parted, his love-dream broken, how little he knew of the bitter grief which was to accrue from that promise wrung from his white lips.

Like one in a dream he heard her murmur the name of Pluma Hurlhurst. The power of speech seemed denied him; he knew what she meant. He bowed his head on her cold hands.

“I have no heart to give her,” he said, brokenly. “My heart is with Daisy, my sweet little lost love.”

Poor Rex! how little he knew Daisy was at that self-same moment watching with beating heart the faint light of his window through the branches of the trees––Daisy, whom he mourned as dead, alas! dead to him forever, shut out from his life by the rash words of that fatally cruel promise.