“Pardon me, my old friend,” said he, mildly. “That is exactly my case. I am old: the grave is open at my feet; and beyond it stands she who, though early lost, has been the constant passion of my life. Perhaps my heart may have pined under the privation of her society as sensibly as yours under afflictions more strange in the eyes of the world. But it is not wise—it does not give strength, but impair it—thus to compare human afflictions. I should prefer cheerfully encouraging each other to wait for release; I see little prospect of any release this day for us exiles; so let me see what my memory is worth in my old age—let me see what I can recall of our Janet. You know I always consider Janet my own by favouritism; and she called me grandfather the last time we met, as she used to do before she was able to spell so long a word.”
He told so much of Janet, that Lady Carse changed her opinion about his loss of memory. Again Annie stole home: and there did the President seek her, after a long conversation with her neighbour.
“I wish to know,” said he, “whether the great change that I observe in this lady is recent.”
“She is greatly changed within a few months,” replied the widow: “and I think she has sunk within a few days. I see, sir, that you look for her release soon.”
“If the change has been rapid of late,” he replied, “it is my opinion that she is dying.”
“Is there anything that you would wish done?” asked Annie.
“What can we do? I perceive that she is in possession of what is perhaps the only aid her case admits of—a friend who can at once soothe her earthly life, and feed her heavenly one.”
Annie bowed her head, and then said—
“You would not have me conceal her state from herself, I think, sir.”
“I would not. I believe she is aware that I think her very ill—decisively ill.”