“No—no—” But she could not find anything to say, so she smoothed his forehead.
She had never seen any one die, but she was not afraid. That is a matter of temperament, and neither man nor woman should be blamed who can not bear to feel a soul parting and see a body left behind. Katharine felt only that she would keep him if she could. She knelt down and took one of his hands, his left. It was cold and hard to touch, with little warmth in it, like that of a statue in a garden when the sun has gone down.
“I want to say good-bye,” said the hoarse voice, just above a whisper.
“Yes—I’m here,” answered Katharine, and there was silence again, while she gently caressed the cold hand.
“Routh said half an hour.”
The mysterious, dying eyes wandered a little, and then sought the white clock on the mantelpiece.
“Can’t see—what time it is,” said the rough whisper.
“Twenty minutes to four,” answered Katharine, glancing round quickly, and then looking again at his face.
“Poor child—little girl—ought to be in bed.” The words came indistinctly, and the breathing grew more heavy.
Then the beard moved with unspoken words, and Katharine watched, hearing nothing. She had been a little confused at first, but now she recollected that she should ask if there were anything she could do. She could not tell whence the recollection came. She had perhaps got it from a book read long ago. He might want something. He might die unsatisfied. She made anxious haste to ask the question.