"We must try and shelter this window, Ned," said she, "from the morning sun. It comes in too strongly here in papa's library. By next summer, I hope to see a thick trellis of leaves across the whole casement."
"By next summer," repeated the old man, from within, with a trembling voice; "and who will be here to see it?"
"This little hedge, too, must be overgrown with that creeping plant we got from America, the white liana. I want the beech to be completely hid beneath the blossoms, and they come out in May."
"In May!" said the poor old man, with an accent of inexpressible sadness, as though the very promise of spring had unfolded a deep vista of years of suffering. "But why care for the home, if she, who made its sunshine, is taken from me? What matters it where I linger on, or how, the last few hours of a life, bereft of its only enjoyment,--she, that in my old age renewed all the memories of my early and my happy days."
He sat down and covered his face with his hands; and when he withdrew them, the whole character and expression of the countenance had changed: a dull, meaningless look had replaced the mild and cheerful beam of his soft blue eyes; the cheeks were flattened, and the mouth, so ready with its gentle smile, now remained partly open, and slightly drawn to one side. He made an effort to speak, but a thickened guttural utterance rendered the words scarcely intelligible. He approached the window and beckoned with his hand. The next instant, pale with terror, but still composed and seeming calm, Mary was beside him.
"You are not well, dear papa," she said, with a great effort to appear at ease. "You must lie down--here will do--on this sofa; I 'll close the curtain, and send over for Tiernay,--he said he should be back from Limerick this morning."
A gentle pressure of her hand to his lips, and a faint smile, seemed to assent.
She opened the window, and whispered a few words to the gardener; and then, closing it noiselessly, drew the curtain, and sat down on a low stool beside the sofa where he lay.
So still and motionless did he remain that she thought he slept,--indeed, the long-drawn breathing, and the repose of his attitude, betokened sleep.
Mary did not venture to move, but sat, one hand clasped in his, the other resting on his forehead, still and silent.