Notely, waking once, had not known her among the group of doctors and attendants; only stared at her as one of them, kindly, vaguely.
But, for the most part, he slept in weary bliss. Once, later, they thought her face had awakened some old memory.
"The school-house—is growing—dark," he murmured, in indistinct, half-recovered speech, then fell off again into his soundless slumbers.
The doctors knew. I knew. The mother read no hope.
"He has so much to leave," she sobbed, turning ever to Vesty, who, numb with sorrow, yet tried to comfort her.
So much to leave!—but who knows ever to how much going! Not so Mrs. Garrison. The bright way ended at this pass, in blank darkness.
And Notely slept on, wearied, heedless; soft, luxurious trappings of life all about him; his reconciled young wife; his hope now of an heir for his name and fortune; the work he had struggled at last so unrestingly to do; and the dear, lost love of his youth, Vesty, bending over him.
Leaving them, not able to be heedful, so deep-wrapped in unknown dreams. Waking once more and turning from them vaguely (ah, the sublime, unconscious contempt of death!); turning from them vaguely, as though in some far Basin the dawn were breaking!
"Uncle Benny," said he, holding out his wasted hand, "the school-house is very dark—I'll go home now."
******