“Them socks—the medium thin ones—you'd oughter be puttin' 'em on soon, sir, now. They're in the right-hand corner of the bottom drawer—you know.”
“Yes, Pete; I'll attend to it,” William managed to stammer, after he had cleared his throat.
Eliza's turn came next.
“Remember about the coffee,” Pete said to her, “—the way Mr. William likes it. And always eggs, you know, for—for—” His voice trailed into an indistinct murmur, and his eyelids drooped wearily.
One by one the minutes passed. The doctor came and went: there was nothing he could do. At half-past five the thin old face became again alight with consciousness. There was a good-by message for Bertram, and one for Cyril. Aunt Hannah was remembered, and even little Tommy Dunn. Then, gradually, a gray shadow crept over the wasted features. The words came more brokenly. The mind, plainly, was wandering, for old Pete was young again, and around him were the lads he loved, William, Cyril, and Bertram. And then, very quietly, soon after the clock struck six, Pete fell into the beginning of his long sleep.
CHAPTER XIV. WHEN BERTRAM CAME HOME
It was a little after half-past three o'clock that afternoon when Bertram Henshaw hurried up Beacon Street toward his home. He had been delayed, and he feared that Miss Winthrop would already have reached the house. Mindful of what Billy had said that morning, he knew how his wife would fret if he were not there when the guest arrived. The sight of what he surmised to be Miss Winthrop's limousine before his door hastened his steps still more. But as he reached the house, he was surprised to find Miss Winthrop herself turning away from the door.
“Why, Miss Winthrop,” he cried, “you're not going now! You can't have been here any—yet!”
“Well, no, I—I haven't,” retorted the lady, with heightened color and a somewhat peculiar emphasis. “My ring wasn't answered.”