“Your father has been awake a long time, dear, and is asking so for you.”
“A long time?” he echoed.
“Yes; before Mr. Usher came. Didn't you know? He addressed the envelope of the letter he sent down to you. Didn't you get it?”
“Yes. I got it,” said Sylvester.
“What's the matter with you, Syl? Aren't you going to him?”
“Oh, of course,” he replied. “Of course—yes.”
He went out slowly and mounted the stairs with limbs as heavy as lead. He turned the handle of his father's door and entered. The kind grey eyes of the old man, propped on his pillows, met him as he crossed the threshold, and a smile flickered over the wan lips.
“I was afraid you had forgotten me,” whispered the old man, feebly holding out his hand, which his son pressed in silence.
Ella was standing in the light of the window, medicine bottle and glass in hand. Until the liquid was poured out, she paid no attention to Sylvester. Then she came to the bedside and looked across at him somewhat defiantly before handing the glass to his father.
“What is the use of this solemn little comedy?” said the latter, whimsically, his voice, a whispered echo of the cheeriness of days past. “It won't make me any better. Simmons knows it and you know it and I know it. All the king's horses and all the king's men! And Humpty Dumpty doesn't want to be set up again. He's been on his wall long enough.”