“That’s it—that’s it.”
She was about to rise, but he caught her shoulder. “I bin a good dad to ye, hain’t I, Liddy?” he whispered.
“Always.”
“Never had no ma but Manette, did ye?”
“Never, dad.”
“What danged liars they be!” he said, chuckling. She kissed him, and moved away to the fire to pour hot water and whisky on the herbs.
His eyes followed her proudly, shining like wet glass in the sun. He laughed—such a wheezing, soundless laugh!
“He! he! he! I ain’t no—durn—fool—bless—the Lord!” he said.
Then the shining look in his eyes became a grey film, and the girl turned round suddenly, for the long, wheezy breathing had stopped. She ran to him, and, lifting up his head, saw the look that makes even the fool seem wise in his cold stillness. Then she sat down on the floor, laid her head against the arm of his chair, and wept.
It was very quiet inside. From without there came the twang of an axe, and a man’s voice talking to his horse. When the man came in, he lifted the girl up, and, to comfort her, bade her go look at a picture hanging in her little room. After she was gone he lifted the body, put it on a couch, and cared for it.