Lydia stood by the bed, pale, anguished. Happily, that struggle, which seemed of death, did not last very long. The worn old face, almost venerable at length in spite of the grotesqueness of its features, fell into calm. Then, almost as in a natural waking from sleep, the eyes opened and were aware of things.
'Are you feeling better, grandad dear?' Lydia asked.
He looked surprised, tried to speak; but there was no voice.
Luke was long.
The two women stood side by side. The old man kept endeavouring to utter words; his powerlessness was dreadful to him, his face showed. But at length he spoke.
'Lyddy!—Thyrza!'
'She shall come and see you, grandad. She shall come very soon.'
Again a vain endeavour to speak. His face altered; it expressed Lydia knew not what. A supreme effort, and he again spoke.
'Mary Bower gave me all I wanted, Be friends with her, Lyddy!'
No more than that. Gradually, an end of struggle, an end of pain, an end of all things.