‘Master,’ said Wyndham—he, too, had gone back to the old days—‘you are thinking——’
‘Of her. They said she was dead.’
‘Who was dead?’ asked Wyndham.
At this the old man roused. He had not known Wyndham’s voice the first time, but now he did, and he turned and looked at him; and presently consciousness once more grew within his eyes.
‘It is you, boy. And where is she?’
‘She? The girl, you mean?’
‘Yes.... I promised her. You remember.... It is late now, very late ... and I must sleep. But ... a word, boy.... I have left you all, and she ... out of it ... you must give her ... give her....’ He sank back.
‘All—all,’ said Wyndham eagerly.
‘No ... no’—he rallied wonderfully—‘three hundred a year—that for a girl.... The rest is yours.... But see to her.... I can trust you. You are a good boy. But your Greek, boy—your Greek is bad—your aorists are weak. You must mend—you must mend....’
His dying eyes tried to take the old stern look as they rested on Wyndham, the look he used to give the boy when his Greek or his Latin verses were hardly up to the mark, but presently it changed and softened into a wider light. ‘The boy,’ in the last of all moments, was forgotten for the love that was strongest of all.