It was a solemn scene; the dim light—the total silence, broken only by the feeble breathing of the old man, who lay passive as death, without death's sanctity of calm. Over all, that gay youthful portrait which the lamp-light, excluded from the bed, kindled into wonderfully vivid life—far more like life than the sleeper below.
The young man stood mournfully watching his father, until startled by a flash of fire-light on the canvas, his eyes wandered to the painted smile of his unknown mother, and then turned back again to the pillows—the same pillows where she died.. His fingers began to twitch nervously, though his features remained still. Slowly, Agatha saw large tears rise and roll down his cheeks. Her heart yearned over her husband, but she dared not speak. She could but weep—not outwardly, but inwardly, with exceeding bitter pangs.
At length the old man stirred. Agatha remembered her duty as nurse, and hastily whispered her husband:
“I think you should move aside for a minute. Don't let him see you suddenly—it will startle him.”
“That is thoughtful of you. But who will tell him?”
“I will—he is used to me. Are you awake, father?”
Nathanael caught the word, and looked surprised.
“Dear father,” she continued, soothingly, “will you not try to wake now? Here is some one come to see you—some one you will be glad to see.”
The Squire's eyes grew wild; he uttered a thick, painful murmur.
“Some one who was sure to come when he knew you were ill—your son.” She paused, shocked at the frenzied expression of the old man's face. “Nay—your younger son—Nathanael—may he come?”