Through the windows I saw a dim light, and figures moving. I pushed open
the door without knocking. A doctor, young and alert, had been summoned
from the village, and the dull light from a kerosene lamp, set hastily
on the table, touched his curly red hair as he knelt by the mattress. An
old white-bearded man sat huddled in one of the shadowy corners, weeping
the tears of senility, and a tall, dust-colored woman, whom I rightly
took to be Mrs. Hikes, stood stolidly watching the doctor. Outside the
crickets were singing cheerily in the wet grass.
"Oh, yes, so glad you've come," murmured the doctor as he rose.
Then I stepped closer to the little figure lying in the old blue
curtain, that was stiffened now with blood. The parted lips were gray;
the whole face, except the vivid eyes, was dead. The night-dress was
thrown back from the poor throat and chest, stained here and there with
spots of crimson on the white skin, that seemed stretched over the small
bones. I stooped beside her, in answer to an appealing look. She could
not lift the frail, tired hand that lay by her, its fingers uncurled,
the hand of one who, dying, relinquishes gladly its grasp on life. The
hands of the strong, torn from a world they love, clench and clutch at
the last; it is an involuntary hold on earth. The doctor moved away. The
whining sobs of the old man became more audible.
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