“Mama?”

And edged by a chill I had never heard, she continued, “Her heart need not travel far to find its rest.”

I tried to see past the black gauze to her expression, but she turned her face quickly and bid Jessie leave us alone. Jessie nodded and slid shut the compartment door behind her, just as Mama burst forth querulously.

“Why is it, Maisie, you did not see fit to worry about my heart?”

“Mama?”

“When you told me of your father’s last wish.”

“Would you not have wanted to carry out his wishes?”

“I would rather not have known his wishes.”

“But Mama—”

“And why is it, Maisie”—she raised up her veil with one shaking hand—“he spoke that wish only to you?”

“Mama,” I murmured, “you know he could barely speak at the last. He would have”—I stopped and put my hand upon her knee—“he would have told you the same if—”

But she closed her eyes against me then and said simply, “Well, you are your father’s child.”

Stung, I leaned back into the cushions. Neither of us spoke. With a jolt, the train moved forward and slowly began again its shuddering journey to the south. Mama’s face through her veil remained rigid; and glad I was then, glad I had not told Mama all that Papa had said before he died. It would remain our secret, his and mine. Indeed, I reflected, I do not think she could have understood those strange words, and would not have tried. Hers was never a questing spirit.

Like his, I thought sadly. Like mine. I shut my eyes to blot the unwelcome orange gaiety of sunshine, and was again beside him on the bed. For a long hour, I had knelt there, my head against his side, his wasted hand stretched out and resting in my hair. Behind me, the nurse sat asleep in her chair, the lamp turned quite low. Mama had finally dropped off to sleep herself in the adjoining room, though through the open doorway I could hear how fitful was her sleep. My father’s touch seemed nearly weightless, and nothing stirred in the shadowed room but the hand upon the mantel clock ticking away indefatigable time. Toward the dawn, I felt him move, and raising my head, I saw that Papa whispered into the dark, his lips working and his poor dry mouth framing words I could not hear. I stood quickly and dipped my handkerchief into the pitcher by his head, then dabbed a bit of moisture around his lips and onto his tongue. He paused and his eyes looked up into mine.

I could not bear the sense I had that he stared at me from across the widening gap between us, and I leaned my face down close to his to whisper, “Papa.” He shut his eyes slowly and then opened them. He looked at me for a long while and then began again the effort to speak.