“Yes, my dear. Pray go softly, he is so weak.”
Tom drew a deep breath, and went up to the next floor, tapped lightly at the bedroom door, and expecting to see a terrible object stretched upon the bed of sickness in a darkened chamber, he entered, and felt quite a shock.
For the room was bright and sunlit, the window open, and his uncle, looking very white and careworn, seated in an easy-chair, dressed, save that he wore a loose dressing-gown.
“Ah, Tom,” he said, holding out a thin hand, “at last—at last.”
Tom took the hand extended to him, and felt it clutch his tightly.
“I’m so sorry to see you so ill, uncle,” he said.
“Yes, yes, of course, boy; but don’t waste time. Let me get it over—before it is too late.”
“You wanted to see me about business, uncle?”
“Yes,” said Uncle James, with a groan; “terrible business. Ah, Tom, my boy. But stop, go to the door, and see that no one is listening.”
Tom obeyed, opening and closing the door.