'don't look at me so--speak to me, dear!'

The boy smiled languidly, but an instant afterwards his features
resolved into the same cold, solemn gaze.

'William, dear William! rouse yourself; don't look at me so, love--
pray don't! Oh, my God! what shall I do!' cried the widow,
clasping her hands in agony--'my dear boy! he is dying!' The boy
raised himself by a violent effort, and folded his hands together--
'Mother! dear, dear mother, bury me in the open fields--anywhere
but in these dreadful streets. I should like to be where you can
see my grave, but not in these close crowded streets; they have
killed me; kiss me again, mother; put your arm round my neck--'

He fell back, and a strange expression stole upon his features; not
of pain or suffering, but an indescribable fixing of every line and
muscle.

The boy was dead.




SCENES




CHAPTER I--THE STREETS--MORNING