"I can't get my breath if you shut everything up so tight," she
said. "Whatever comes, I ain't going to be smothered to death,
Car'line Holland."
Outside of the window grew a cherry tree, powdered with moist
buds with the promise of blossoms she would not live to see.
Between its boughs she saw a crystal cup of sky over hills that
were growing dim and purple. The outside air was full of sweet,
wholesome springtime sounds that drifted in fitfully. There were
voices and whistles in the barnyard, and now and then faint
laughter. A bird alighted for a moment on a cherry bough, and
twittered restlessly. Naomi knew that white mists were hovering
in the silent hollows, that the maple at the gate wore a misty
blossom red, and that violet stars were shining bluely on the
brooklands.
The room was a small, plain one. The floor was bare, save for a
couple of braided rugs, the plaster discolored, the walls dingy
and glaring. There had never been much beauty in Naomi Holland's
environment, and, now that she was dying, there was even less.
At the open window a boy of about ten years was leaning out over
the sill and whistling. He was tall for his age, and
beautiful--the hair a rich auburn with a glistening curl in it,
skin very white and warm-tinted, eyes small and of a greenish
blue, with dilated pupils and long lashes. He had a weak chin,
and a full, sullen mouth.
The bed was in the corner farthest from the window; on it the
sick woman, in spite of the pain that was her portion
continually, was lying as quiet and motionless as she had done
ever since she had lain down upon it for the last time.
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