“There now. . . . Is it really? That’s bad for ’ee. When did she pass away?” “She isn’t dead. I . . . I hope she isn’t. But she’s awfully ill.” “Don’t cry now, boy. While there’s life there’s hope. I always tells them that.” “Who do you tell that to?” The black woman laughed. “Who do I tell that to? Ha . . . that’s a good ’un. Why, dearie, my patients, of course.” “I don’t understand. . . . What sort of patients?” “Well, Mr. Inquisitive, if you must know, I’m a monthly nurse.” Still Edwin did not understand. He asked,—“Do many of them die?” “Why, bless my heart, no. It’s more a matter of births than deaths. Not that I haven’t a’ seen deaths. And laid them out. But I’ll tell you something. It’s my belief that they all die happy. And though it’s hard on a young boy like you to lose his best friend—that’s his mother—it’s my belief that death is a happy release. Yes, a happy release. I always tell them that. Especially after a long illness. I wonder, has your dear mother been ill for a long time?” Edwin thought. “Yes.” “Perhaps,” said the black woman with relish, “Perhaps you could give me some idea of what she was suffering from and then I could tell you near enough.” “I think,” said Edwin, “it was diabetes.” “Diabetes . . . think of that! I’ve a’ had several with that. It’s a bad complaint. Very. I’m afraid I can’t give you the hopes that I’d like to.” “But don’t they ever get better?” Edwin asked in agony. “I expect they do sometimes, don’t they?” “It all goes to sugar,” said the woman enigmatically. “I ought to know for I’ve had them. Yes . . . I’ve had them. But while there’s life there’s hope. That’s what I always say. And a boy’s best friend is his mother. You must never forget her.” “I couldn’t forget her. Oh, I wish you’d never told me,” said Edwin, sobbing once more. “Now, dearie, don’t take on so. You mustn’t take on so. You must take what God gives you. I always tell them that.” “I won’t take what God gives me,” he cried. “I won’t. I can’t bear to lose her.” “Ssh. . . . You mustn’t say that. It’s wicked to say that; I should be frightened to be struck dead myself if I said a thing like that in God’s hearing.” She looked nervously at the luggage rack above her head as if she expected to find the Almighty in hiding there. Edwin followed the direction of her glance and read: “_This rack is provided for light articles only it must not be used for heavy luggage_.” He wondered inconsequently, whether the stop, which was missing, should come before or after the word “only.” “You must cheer up, dearie,” said the black woman soothingly. “While there’s life . . .” Edwin wished she would shut up. He was sorry that she had ever spoken, and yet he couldn’t quite suppress a desire to be further informed on certain technical details which this authority had at her finger-tips. “Is it a painful death?” he asked slowly, wiping away the last of his tears.