CHAPTER VI.
"Tread softly; bow the head,—
In reverent silence bow,
No passing bell doth toll,
Yet an immortal soul
Is passing now."—Caroline Southey.
A little room, scantily but neatly furnished. A low bed. A dying man. A kneeling girl,—half child, half woman,—with a lovely, miserable face, and pretty yellow hair.
It was almost dusk, and the sound of the moaning sea without, rising higher and hoarser as the tide rushes in, comes like a wail of passionate agony into the silent room.
The rain patters dismally against the window-panes. The wind—that all day long has been sullen and subdued—is breaking forth into a fury long suppressed, and, dashing through the little town, on its way to the angry sea, makes the casements rattle noisily and the tall trees sway and bend beneath its touch. Above, in the darkening heavens, gray clouds are scurrying madly to and fro.
"Georgie," whispers a faint voice from out the gathering gloom, "are you still there?"
"Yes, dear, I am here, quite near to you. What is it?"
"Sit where I can see you, child,—where I can watch your face. I have something to say to you. I cannot die with this weight upon my heart."
"What weight, papa?"