He always
stopped to say a friendly word to Simmons, sniffling wretchedly about
among the cages in the dining-room, and then went on up-stairs.
On this October afternoon the old servant sneaked up at his heels; and
sliding into the room behind him as noiselessly as a shadow, settled
down on his hunkers close to the bedside. Once he put up a lean yellow
hand, and patted the bedclothes; but he made no more claim to
attention than a dog might have done. Dr. Lavendar found his senior
warden in the sick-room. Of late Samuel had been there every day; he
had very little to say to his father, not from any lingering
bitterness, but because, to poor Samuel, all seemed said--the boy was
dead. When Dr. Lavendar came in he glanced at the bed, and then, with
a start, at the heavy middle-aged figure sitting listlessly at the
bedside. Samuel nodded solemnly.
"A matter of hours, William says. I shall not go home until it's
over."
"Does he hear you?" said Dr. Lavendar, in a low voice, leaning over to
look into the gray face.
"Oh, no;" said Samuel.
The dying man opened one eye and looked at his son. "How much you
know!" he said, then closed it again.
"Are you comfortable, Benjamin?" Dr. Lavendar asked him. There was no
reply.
Samuel's face reddened. "You can't tell when he hears," he said. It
was then that Simmons put out his hand and patted the bedclothes over
the old feet.
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