A little bitterness surged up within her as she read again the scrap of faded writing, the old agony out of the past stirred once more at her heart.
"If I might make a daisy-chain for you, Joan—my Joan! How the rooks caw to-night! Do you hear them, dear?" The weak voice spoke dreamily; the bitterness in her heart died away. She laid her face softly against the tired face on the pillow.
"My poor boy," she whispered—"my poor boy!"
"And the limes—are so sweet," he rambled on. "I think—it is—the bees—that hum so loudly in my ears. Give me a rose, sweetheart. It—is getting dark—so dark for you—out here in the garden. You must go in. The wood-pigeons are quiet now, only how white the lilies shine—against the darkness; and the bees—the bees are humming still, and the—limes—are—so sweet."
For a moment the tired voice stopped, then began again:
"Never a someone else, my Joan, only you. And the years slipped, and I forgot how fast they went; we will have hollyhocks—in our own garden, dear."
The doctor, summoned by Richard, had entered the room, but he shook his head sadly, and moved towards the door.
"There is nothing to be done," he whispered to the servant, "we had better leave them alone. There is nothing we can do."
The room was very still, save only for the laboured breathing of the dying man. The woman's hand still softly stroked his hair; he lay so quietly that she thought he had passed out of consciousness into that strange borderland which is Death's ante-chamber.
The setting sunlight streamed into the room and across his face; the twittering of the birds in the square, the soft rustling of the wind in the tree-tops, were borne in at the half-open window.