“Hush! be silent!” muttered the old man, in a low, stern voice.
“Is it Tuesday to-day?” asked Mary, softly.
“Yes, dear, Tuesday,” said the old man.
“It was on Thursday my poor uncle died. Could I live till Thursday, doctor?”
The old man tried to speak, but could not.
“You are afraid to shock me,” said she, with a faint attempt to smile, “but if you knew how happy I am,—happy even to leave a life I loved so well. It never could have been the same again, though—the spell was breaking, hardship and hunger were maddening them—who knows to what counsels they 'd have listened soon! Tell Harry to be kind to them, won't you? Tell him not to trust to others, but to know them himself; to go, as I have done, amongst them. They 'll love him so for doing it. He is a man, young, rich, and high-hearted,—how they 'll dote upon him! Catty used to say it was my father they 'd have worshipped; but that was in flattery to me, Catty, you always said we were so like—”
“Oh dear! oh dear! why won't you tell her?” broke in Catty. But a severe gesture from the old man again checked her words.
“How that wild night at sea dwells in my thoughts! I never sleep but to dream of it. Cousin Harry must not forget those brave fellows. I have nothing to requite them with. I make no will, doctor,” said she, smiling, “for my only legacy is that nosegay there. Will you keep it for my sake?”
The old man hid his face, but his strong frame shook and quivered in the agony of the moment.
“Hush!” said she, softly; “I hear voices without. Who are they?”