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“Listen to me, but do not try to speak or
you might spit blood again,” said the Doctor.
“We want to help you to get well and strong,
and you will then return home again.”
“Home?” whispered the boy.
“Yes, home—to your own home. Wouldn’t
you like to write home as soon as you are a
little stronger? You will tell me what to say
and I will write the letter for you and
send it off. Perhaps we can write it
to-morrow.”
There came almost a smile on the lips of
the boy.
“Now,” he whispered.
“No, I think we had better wait till
to-morrow.”
“Now,” he whispered again.
The doctor looked at him attentively and
saw he was right. Josephine rushed to fetch
a pen and paper in the sacristy, and in an
almost inaudible whisper the boy began:
“Meine liebe Mutter . . . !”
Josephine’s big shining mother’s eyes filled
with tears, for they had understood what her
ears did not.
“Meine . . . liebe . . . Mutter . . . !”
whispered the boy once again with still fainter
voice. A slight shiver passed over him.
His head turned towards Josephine, and it
was all over.
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