In less than a week Villard sat out in the sunshine, with light blankets about him, and Winifred near. She read to him, sang to him, laughed at him, called him a bear, and teased him for trying to live alone.
"If you and George move down here and live with me, I'll will to you both, in common, a cold million dollars," said Villard eagerly.
"And me leave my dear little white cottage! Oh, how could you dare to tempt me, Uncle Drury!" she exclaimed, with a laugh.
"I mean it, little woman," said Villard, very soberly.
"Well, don't tell George that, please. He likes you now, and it might turn him against you. Don't you see, dear man, he wants to make his own way in the world!"
"He is right, little woman, and you are going to help him, more than he will know," replied Villard, with enthusiasm.
"Well, if you just knew all about it, you'd think differently. He is so active, and so kindly, that he often steals out of his bed and cooks his own breakfast rather than awaken old lazy bones—that's me," laughed Winifred.
"It won't hurt him, and it shows his affection. He'll rise in the world—all good husbands do."
And so ran the days by until Villard, in sheer pity for Carver's young bride, sent her away in his car to the home that she loved. Then back to his old haunts he went straightway—to the window where the open sea came into view. From that point of vantage, somehow, he heard the voice of his old love, bidding him come—and with a prayer in his heart he lay back and died.
When Updyke came down to take charge of affairs, a letter was handed to him by the weeping housekeeper—Mrs. Bond's heart seemed broken!