“I will. You may trust me, uncle.”
“I do. That’s a’ that is to be said between thee and me. It’s a bit o’ comfort to hev heard thee speak out so straightfor’ard. God bless thee, nephew Richard!”
He brightened up considerably the week before Christmas, and watched Elizabeth and Lady Evelyn deck his room with box and fir and holly. The mother was quiet and very undemonstrative, but she attached herself to the dying man, and he regarded her with a pitying tenderness, for which there appeared to be no cause whatever. As she carried away her boy in her arms on Christmas-eve, he looked sadly after her, and, touching Elizabeth’s hand, said, “Be varry good to her, wilt ta?”
They had all spent an hour with him in honor of the festival, and about seven o’clock he went to bed. Richard knew that the ladies would be occupied for a short time with some Christmas arrangements for the poor of the village, and he remained with the squire. The sick man fell into a deep sleep, and Richard sat quiet, with his eyes fixed upon the glowing embers. Suddenly, the squire spoke out clear and strong—“Yes, father, I am coming!”
In the dim chamber there was not a movement. Richard glanced at the bed. His uncle’s eyes were fixed upon him. He went to his side and grasped his hand.
“Did you hear him call me?”
“I heard no one speak but you.”
“My father called me, Richard.”
Richard fully believed the dying man. He stooped to his face and said, cheerfully, “You will not go alone then, dear uncle; I am glad for your sake!”
“Ay; it’s nearly time to go. It’s a bit sudden at last; but I’m ready. I wish Antony hed got here; tell them to come, and to bring t’ little lad.”