The door was open, and the bell brought a sweet, matronly woman to
receive them.
"We are Henry Ridgeley's mother and brother," said Barton. "Is he
still alive?"
The question indicated his utter hopelessness of his brother's
condition.
"Come in this way, into the parlor," said the lady; and stepping out,
"Mother," she called, "Mr. Ridgeley's mother has come. Please step
this way."
A moment later, a tall, elderly lady, sad-faced as was her daughter,
and much agitated, entered the room.
"My mother," said the younger lady. "I am Mrs. Hitchcock."
"Your son--" said the elder lady.
"Take me to him at once, I pray you! Let me see him! I am his mother!
Who shall keep me from him?"
"Mother," said Barton, stepping up and placing his hands about her,
"don't you feel it? Henry is dead. I knew it ere we stepped in."
"Dead! who says he is dead? He is not dead!"
"Tell her," said Barton; "she is heroic: let her know the worst."
"Take me to him!" she said, as they remained silent.
Up the stairs, in a dimly-lighted room, past two or three young men,
and a kind neighbor or two, they conducted her; and there, composed
as if in slumber, with his grand head thrown back, and his fine strong
face fully upward, she found her third-born, growing chill in death.
She sprang forward--arrested herself when within a step of him, and
gazed. The light passed from her own eye, and the warmth from her
face; a spasm shook her, and nothing more.
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