“Nonsense! Dan is a thoroughly good gardener when he likes.”
“Aye, when he likes,” said the old man; and he suddenly subsided into silence, which lasted some minutes, during which John Grange was very thoughtful. Then, suddenly starting, the invalid said—
“There, old fellow, don’t run down a good man. It was to be.”
There was a deep sigh.
“Don’t do that, old chap,” said John. “It isn’t cheering. I don’t mind it so very much. But you must go now; I want to think a bit before they fetch me. Good-bye, and thank you and your dear old wife for all she has done. It’s no use to fight against it, old man; I’m going to be always in the dark, I know well enough, so you may as well try and train up some dog to lead me about when I come back, for Heaven only knows what’s to become of me. But there, say good-bye. My old mother shan’t have taught me to kneel down and say every night, ‘thy will be done!’ for nothing. There—shake hands and go,” he said, trying to command his trembling voice—“before I break down and cry like a girl, just when I want to act the man.”
He stretched out his hand again, and it closed, but not upon old Tummus’s horny palm, but ringers that were soft and warm, and clung to his; and as that little, soft, trembling hand seemed to nestle there, John Grange uttered a hoarse cry.
“Who—who is this?” he whispered then.
For answer there was a quick, rustling sound, as of some one kneeling down by the couch, and then there was wild sobbing and panting as a soft, wet cheek was laid against his hands.
“Miss Ellis—Mary!” he cried wildly; and the answer came at once.
“Oh, John, John, I could not bear it—I could not let you go without one word.”