The artist raised his eyes with a smile. He drew a deep breath. “Yes—you’ve come,” he said. “You’ve come.”
“I’ve come,” said Uncle William. His big bulk had not stirred. It seemed to fill the room.
The sick man rested in it. His eyes closed. “I’ve wanted—you.”
Uncle William nodded. “Sick folks get fancies,” he said.
“—and I kept seeing you in the fever—and you—” The voice droned away and was still.
Uncle William sat quiet, one hand on the thin wrist. The galloping pulse slowed—and leaped again—and fluttered, and fell at last to even beats. The tense muscles relaxed. The parted lips closed with a half-smile.
Uncle William bent forward, watching it. In the dim light of the room, his face had a kind of gentleness—a kindliness and bigness that watched over the night and reached out beyond it to the ends of the earth.
X
In the morning the big form was still there. The artist turned to it as he opened his eyes. “You are not gone!”