“O yes. I went to inquire of you about him at Chapley’s, and when I heard that he was worse, of course I came. Is he much worse?”
“He can’t live at all. The doctor says it’s no use. He wants to see you. Will you come in?”
“Peace!” Ray hesitated. “Tell me! Is it about his book?”
“Yes, something about that. He wishes to speak with you.”
“Oh, Peace! I’ve done all I could about that. I went straight to Mr. Brandreth and tried to get him to take it. But I couldn’t. What shall I tell your father, if he asks me?”
“You must tell him the truth,” said the girl, sadly.
“Is that Mr. Ray?” Mrs. Denton called from the sick-room. “Come in, Mr. Ray. Father wants you.”
“In a moment. Come here, Mrs. Denton,” Ray called back.
She came out, and he told her what he had told Peace. She did not seem to see its bearing at once. When she realized it all, and had spent her quick wrath in denunciation of Mr. Brandreth’s heartlessness, she said desperately: “Well, you must come now. Perhaps it isn’t his book; perhaps it’s something else. But he wants you.”
She had to rouse her father from the kind of torpor in which he lay like one dead. She made him understand who was there, and then he smiled, and turned his eyes appealingly toward Ray. “Put your ear as close to his lips as you can. He can’t write any more. He wants to say something to you.”