"Ha, stranger, this you, eh? Berry Young's a dyin'; go over there wi' me, will ye?"
It was the voice of Doctor Hurd.
"What need for me have you?" I replied, rather stiffly, not much relishing this too obtrusive familiarity.
"Well—I—I jist kinder wanted ye to go over. The poor boy's 'bout passin' away, an' things is a workin' so tarnation curious! Come 'long wi' me, friend, will ye?"
Something in the fellow's voice touched me, and without another word I arose and followed him to the cottage. The night was intensely black. I think it was clear, but a heavy fog from the swamps had settled over everything, and through this dismal veil the voices of owls from far and near struck with hollow, sepulchral effect.
"A heart is the trump!" sang out that alto voice from within the saloon as we passed.
Doctor Hurd clutched my arm and muttered:
"That's that voice ag'in! Strange—strange! Poor Berry Young!"
We entered the cottage and found ourselves in a cosy little room, where, on a low bed, a pale, intelligent looking young man lay, evidently dying. He was very much emaciated, his eyes, wonderfully large and luminous, were sunken, and his breathing quick and difficult. A haggard, watching-worn woman sat by his bed. From her resemblance to him I took her to be his sister. She was evidently very unwell herself. We sat in silence by his bedside, watching his life flow into eternity, till the little clock on the mantel struck, sharp and clear, the hour of ten.
The sound of the bell startled the sick man, and after some incoherent mumbling he said, quite distinctly: