At sight of Vesty with her child and me, Uncle Benny, to whom the shadows were coming as to the truly sane, without grief or surprise, touched his unribboned throat with feeble apology.
"I look dreadful," he murmured. That was not troubling him! He had a secret beyond all that, I saw.
"There 's been ten in to call to-day," he exulted sweetly, with folded hands of satisfaction, death's bloom high in his cheeks; "ten!—ahem!—to call."
Vesty looked at me with her sad smile. "It is because we love you, Uncle Benny," she said, "and you took—take such care of the children. Who?" she asked, for his mind was on it.
"Mother," said Uncle Benny, since he was sane now, "and"—he mentioned a number of the living Basins, and went on, in the same tone—"and Fluke and Gurd."
Vesty looked at him with touching sorrow and despair, being troubled and not sane.
"They played," he said, his hands moving with the recollection of the melody; "they played wonderful—but sometimes it was an organ!"
"Good!" I said, Vesty stood so pale. "We are getting health, I see. We are on the straight road now."
Uncle Benny, hearing my voice, beckoned me.
"All the things in the drawer!" he said, "because you were 'flicted." His eyes shone lovingly and compassionately on me. "All for you. But go and see!"