Calm and collected, Mary Levingston might be seen noiselessly moving about her father’s chamber. No hand but hers could administer his medicine, or smooth his pillow. The thought of death—the death of her father—had not once crossed her mind. His life seemed so necessary to his family, that such an event appeared impossible.
“Has he come, Mary?”
“Who, dear father?” she gently asked, stooping and kissing his brow.
“Walter, my son, has he come?”
“It is too soon yet to expect him.”
“Too soon,” said he, faintly, “I fear then I shall never see him. The hand of death is on me, my child, I feel its chill.”
“You will kill me, dear father, if you talk so. You will soon be better. I thought this was to be the happiest week of my life,” said she, bursting into tears.
“Mary,” observed Mr. Levingston, “I wish you to be calm and listen to me. If I should not live to see my son, tell him he was his father’s idol. Tell him to transmit the name of Levingston, unsullied, to posterity, and to be the comfort and support of his widowed mother. One more message and I am done,” said he, wiping the cold sweat from off his brow. “Hark!” he exclaimed, hearing a noise, “perhaps that is Walter.” Finding himself disappointed, he proceeded—“request Edward James to tell his father that I die in peace with all men, and joyfully entrust the happiness of my daughter to his son. I had hoped to have given away the treasure with my own hand, but that is all over. Leave me now for a few moments, I wish to see your mother.”
That interview over there was a solemn silence for a few moments, when he exclaimed, “Did you say he had come? Oh my son, receive my blessing.”
“You were dreaming, dear father,” said Mary, “Walter is not here.”