"How merry they are!—how strangely things have come about for us and ours! As Ursula was saying to-night, at this moment we have not a single care."
I grasped at that, for Dr. K—— had declared that if John had a quiet life—a life without many anxieties—he might, humanly speaking, attain a good old age.
"Ay, your father did. Who knows? we may both be old men yet, Phineas."
And as he rose, he looked strong in body and mind, full of health and cheer—scarcely even on the verge of that old age of which he spoke. And I was older than he.
"Now, will you come with me to say good-night to the children?"
At first I thought I could not—then, I could. After the rest had merrily dispersed, John and I stood for a long time in the empty parlour, his hand on my shoulder, as he used to stand when we were boys, talking.
What we said I shall not write, but I remember it, every word. And he—I KNOW he remembers it still.
Then we clasped hands.
"Good-night, Phineas."
"Good-night, John."