It was very quiet; the voices about him were pleasant and low.
If he had drifted from any shock of pain into a sleep like death,
some of the stillness hung about him yet; but the outer life was
homely and fresh and natural.
The doctor used to talk to him a little; and sometimes one or two
of the patients from the eye-ward would grow tired of sitting
about in the garden-alleys, and would loiter in, if Lois would
give them leave; but their talk wearied him, jarred him as
strangely as if one had begun on politics and price-currents to
the silent souls in Hades. It was enough thought for him to
listen to the whispered stories of the sisters in the long
evenings, and, half-heard, try and make an end to them; to look
drowsily down into the garden, where the afternoon sunshine was
still so summer-like that a few holly-hocks persisted in showing
their honest red faces along the walls, and the very leaves that
filled the paths would not wither, but kept up a wholesome ruddy
brown. One of the sisters had a poultry-yard in it, which he
could see: the wall around it was of stone covered with a brown
feathery lichen, which every rooster in that yard was determined
to stand on, or perish in the attempt; and Holmes would watch,
through the quiet, bright mornings, the frantic ambition of the
successful aspirant with an amused smile.
"One 'd thenk," said Lois, sagely, "a chicken never stood on a
wall before, to hear 'em, or a hen laid an egg."
Nor did Holmes smile once because the chicken burlesqued man: his
thought was too single for that yet.
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