My uncle sighed. “They have sent an express for the dear boy, Madam?” said he.
“Exactly at half-past nine last evening,” answered my mother, glancing at me.
“He could scarcely be here by this time,” said my uncle, and he moved again in the bed. “Pish, how the pillow frets one!”
“Is it too high?” said my mother.
“No,” said my uncle, faintly, “no—no—the discomfort is not in the pillow, after all: ‘tis a fine day; is it not?”
“Very!” said my mother; “I wish you could go out.”
My uncle did not answer: there was a pause. “Ods fish, Madam, are those carriage wheels?”
“No, Sir William—but—”
“There are sounds in my ear; my senses grow dim,” said my uncle, unheeding her: “would that I might live another day; I should not like to die without seeing him. ‘Sdeath, Madam, I do hear something behind!—Sobs, as I live!—Who sobs for the old knight?” and my uncle turned round, and saw me.
“My dear—dear uncle!” I said, and could say no more.