"Raines's foreman says the old man's coming home to-day."
He meant me.
"Reckon his head was purty level," replied the stage-driver, tossing his head backward toward me.
"Mr. Raines," said the coachman, recognizing me, "Mr. Markson is awful sick—like to die any minute—an' he wants to see you right away—wishes you wouldn't wait for anything."
What to make of it I didn't know, and said so, upon which the stage-driver rather pettishly suggested that 'twouldn't take long to find out if I got behind Markson's team; and, as I agreed with him, I changed conveyances, and was soon at Markson's house.
Helen met me at the door, and led me immediately to Markson's chamber. The distance from the door of his room to the side of his bed couldn't have been more than twenty feet, yet, in passing over it, it seemed to me that I imagined at least fifty reasons why the sick man had sent for me, but not one of the fifty was either sensible or satisfactory.
I was even foolish enough to imagine Markson's conscience was troubled, and that he was going to pay me some money which he justly owed me, whereas he had paid me every cent, according to contract.
We reached his bedside before I had determined what it could be. Helen took his hand, and said:
"Father, here is Mr. Raines."
Markson, who was lying motionless, with his face to the wall, turned quickly over and grasped my hand and beckoned me closer. I put my head down, and he whispered: