I put my ear to her
cold lips.
"His letters ... the letters ... and ... my book ... I told you of, take
them. Here, in the closet ... by ... the chimney...."
I could hardly distinguish the faint whispers. I raised my hand
impatiently, and the old man stopped moaning. Mrs. Hikes and the doctor
ceased speaking in low undertones. Only a great moth, that had fluttered
inside the lamp chimney thudded heavily from side to side.
"Yes, yes. What shall I do with them?"
She did not speak, and seeing her agonized eyes trying to tell mine, I
cried aloud, "Give her brandy--something. She wants to speak. Oh, give
her a chance to speak!"
The doctor stepped to my side. He lifted the wrist, let it fall, and
shook his head. "Don't you see?" he said. I looked at the eyes, and saw.
Some days later I went to the lonely house. The old man was sitting in a
loose, disconsolate heap in his seat by the apple-tree. The tears rolled
down the wrinkles into his beard, when I spoke of his daughter.
"There were some letters and papers she wished me to have," I said. In
the closet by the chimney. "If you are willing--"
The old man shuffled into the house, and threw open the blinds of the
darkened room. Some one had set the books in neat piles on the table;
the chairs were placed against the wall. The drapery had been washed and
stretched smoothly across the mattress.
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