Part 34 (1/2)

His eyes shone lovingly and compa.s.sionately on me. ”All for you. But go and see!”

Enough surely to relieve all physical defects! The worn and treasured blue necktie, for one thing; a little pocket hand-gla.s.s, a pin-cus.h.i.+on devoted to the tender ingathering of strayed and crooked pins, some sprays of mint and lavender among the rest.

I felt his eyes beaming proudly on me--treasures beautiful from long habit, now yielded in a spirit so complete and lofty! I brushed the back of my hand along my eyes, in the Basin way.

”You mustn't feel bad,” said Uncle Benny, as I came back to him: ”nature didn't do much for you, but it 's going to be all right. I had a talk with mother.”

”I am glad of that, Uncle Benny.”

”Oh, yes! it 's going to be all right.” So full of secrets! he spoke excitedly, with discreetly covered joy; ”you needn't feel bad.”

He lay back, lest he should say too much. And so, as he, wise, covered up his sublime knowledge among us, unwise, with smiling lips, he sank into a sleep.

Uncle Benny, dying, slept with a smile on his lips; and little Gurd, homeless, fatherless, laid in this poor habitation or in that, humbly and roughly, slept in beautiful health with a smile on his lips; and we, unwise, watched dolefully.

”You must not stay,” said Vesty. ”You are not used to lose your rest.

I am so used to watching, and--I am not afraid. Lunette said she would come to help me before morning.”

Starless, moonless darkness showed through the low window, and the candle was burning dimly on the table.

”I shall stay,” I said. I had a student's knowledge of death. ”He will wake soon, and then--it will be morning.”

But Vesty's dear face turned to me with the sorrow of dying.

I was not used to lose my rest. I dozed faintly, with faithfully sleepless lids. In that east of heavy blackness the candle made a strange sun. The world, elsewhere so far from heaven, here at the Basin ascended to it by a common stairway, and little children and the pure of heart climbed upward without dread.

”May I go?” I said, watching them.

”If a child leads thee,” said a voice.

So I looked to a little child, to take my hand, and I saw my mother's face waiting from above, and the beams of glory narrowed; it was the candle burning dimly on the table.

”Notely!” I heard a voice calling.

I started up.

”Notely!” called Uncle Benny, very sweetly and tremulously from the bed. ”Where is he? I led him to school.”

Vesty had gone to the door, and leaned her head there, as if to press back the unbearable anguish and pathos sweeping over her like a flood.

”Notely! Little Note! He was the handsomest of them all, but sometimes he ran away. Notely! Little Note! come home with Uncle Benny now; come home!”

”He will come,” I said, going to him: ”he will come home.”

”Vesty! Where is she? I led her to school.”

She tottered toward him and pressed her warm hands upon his, cold.

”And you,” he said, trying to turn to me, lovingly, faintly, ”you are one of them. I will bring you home. Sing, Vesty; sing 'Sail away----'”