I don't exactly know what it
is that affects me so. It may be the long watching, I suppose, and the
uneasiness of a heart that has lost its owner, and seeks and seeks again,
turning for comfort like a poor lost dog to every face which may prove
friendly. Just now things seem to be in such a dreadful tangle that I can
not even find a thread of it that I can unravel.
Late in the evening, the day before yesterday, I was sitting by the bed
where Dr. Grant was lying, and the conviction kept on growing upon me
that he was becoming worse all the time. I could not help whispering my
fears to Mr. Barnett, who gulped when he answered, as if he also knew
what it is to have that dreadful lump in one's throat.
The long, weary hours dragged themselves along, and presently the doctor
began to speak, and we bent forward to listen, because it was not very
loud and he spoke fast. At first it was all a jumble of delirious words,
but suddenly he looked at me and shook his head.
"My own poor darling," he said. "I am afraid that the sea has 'ketched'
me, and that I shall never make that cove again."
Then he was still again, so very still that I was afraid, and the tears
came and my head went down in my lap, between my hands, and the world
became so full of bitterness that I did not feel as if I could stand it
for another minute. The dear little parson put his hand on my shoulder,
in that curiously gentle way of his.
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