During this long, sad, and very solemn discourse, May had fixed a stony gaze upon him: her face was white as chalk, her eyes were staring wildly. She uttered no sound until he ceased to speak; then she gave a most piteous, woful cry, and sank insensible across the bed, his hand clasped in hers.
I stepped forward, anxious to render some aid—I knew not what. He looked down upon his daughter, then wistfully at me. "It is well, my friend," he whispered; "my time has come. My sands of life have run out. I must go!"
I put my hand out mechanically. He clasped it very tightly, with a nervous grip, and placed it on May's head, saying most gravely and yet so trustfully, "I leave her in God's hands—and yours. I know you will deal kindly with her, as I know my heavenly Father will. I can trust you. I do. Farewell, dear friend, farewell!"
As the last words fluttered from his lips he lay back, closed his eyes, and after he had heaved a few feeble sighs, at longer and longer intervals, I knew that he, too, was dead! At which I threw myself upon my knees beside his couch, utterly unnerved—despondent—desperate.
CHAPTER X.
How long I thus remained silent and despairing I do not know. I was aroused by May addressing me.
"See," she whispered softly,—"see what has happened," and she pointed.
"I know, I know," was all that I could utter.
It was a profoundly miserable scene in that far-away shanty. The rough walls, the crevices between the logs stuffed with moss and mud; the earthen floor, worn into holes and inequalities; the huge fireplace, with its pile of smouldering logs; the dim light from the flickering slush-lamp; the blanket screen, drawn aside for the sake of air; the rough couch of leaves and rugs, on which her father was lying; and she, standing near, with her hands clasped, her face white as that upon which she gazed, with such a look of woe and despair on it, that it made me feel what no mere words can describe.