There was no reply, no movement to indicate that he had even heard her. She stooped to his ear and spoke louder.
“Uncle! Uncle Eliot! I am Judith—your niece. I have come to see you, Uncle! Do you not know me?”
The withered, pallid countenance never changed. The expressionless gaze was fixed as ever. He might have been a dummy of a man except for the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
Judith glanced around and found Miss Halliday standing near with a sneering smile upon her face.
“He’s mighty glad to see you, isn’t he?” she asked.
The girl did not reply. It was quite evident that Gran’pa Eliot was entirely helpless; that he was all unaware of her presence. She looked at the old man attentively, thinking he was far more dead than alive. His cheeks were hollow and sunken, his skin like ancient parchment. The hands that lay extended upon his knees were withered and bony; the wisp of white hair upon his head was carefully brushed; he wore a neat dressing gown. Propped among his pillows he seemed to be as comfortable as was possible for one in his condition.
Letting her eyes roam around the room, Judith saw that it was neat and well cared for. Elaine, always an excellent housekeeper, could not be criticised for any undue laxness.
“I did not realize he was so helpless,” she said. “Does he recognize no one at all?”
“Only one,” replied Elaine, grimly triumphant. “But strangers are sure to make him nervous. He’ll have a bad time, after your foolish intrusion. I can tell by his face that he knows something is wrong; that he’s been disturbed. He don’t know you’re here, perhaps; but he senses something different. I advise you to go before he is upset entirely—a shock of this sort might kill him.”