  At once we established the doctor in our house, that he might be more comfortably disposed; and this was by my sister’s wish, who hoped to be his helper in the sweet labour of healing. And soon a strange thing happened: once in the night—’twas late of a clear, still night—I awoke, of no reason; nor could I fall asleep again, but lay high on the pillow, watching the stars, which peeped in at my window, companionably winking. Then I heard the fall of feet in the house—a restless pacing: which brought me out of bed, in a twinkling, and took me tiptoeing to the doctor’s room, whence the unusual sound. But first I listened at the door; and when I had done that, I dared not enter, because of what I heard, but, crouching in the darkness, must continue to listen ... and listen.... By and by I crept away to my sister’s room, unable longer to bear the awe and sorrow in my heart. “Bessie!” I called, in a low whisper. “Ay, Davy?” “Is you awake?” “Ay, I’m wakeful.” I closed the door after me—then went swiftly to her bedside, treading with great caution. “Listenin’?” I asked. “T’ the doctor,” she answered, “walkin’ the floor.” “Is you afraid?” I whispered. “No.” “I is.” She sat up in bed—and drew me closer. “An’ why, dear?” she asked, stroking my cheek. “Along o’ what I heared in the dark, Bessie—at his door.” “You’ve not been eavesdroppin’, Davy?” she chided. “Oh, I wisht I hadn’t!” “’Twas not well done.” The moon was up, broadly shining behind the Watchman: my sister’s white little room—kept sweet and dainty in the way she had—was full of soft gray light; and I saw that her eyes were wide and moist. “He’s wonderful restless, the night,” she mused. “He’ve a great grief.” “A grief? Oh, Davy!” “Ay, a great, great grief! He’ve been talkin’ to hisself, Bessie. But ’tis not words; ’tis mostly only sounds.” “Naught else?” “Oh, ay! He’ve said——” “Hush!” she interrupted. “’Tis not right for me t’ know. I would not have you tell——” I would not be stopped. “He’ve said, Bessie,” I continued, catching something, it may be, of his agony, “he’ve said, ‘I pay! Oh, God, I pay!’ he’ve said. ‘Merciful Christ, hear me—oh, I pay!’” She trembled. “’Tis some great grief,” said I. “Do you haste to his comfort, Davy,” she whispered, quickly. “’Twould be a kind thing t’ do.” “Is you sure he’s wantin’ me?” “Were it me I would.” When I had got to the doctor’s door again, I hesitated, as before, fearing to go in; and once more I withdrew to my sister’s room. “I’m not able t’ go in,” I faltered. “’Tis awful, Bessie, t’ hear men goin’ on—like that.” “Like what?” “Cryin’.” A little while longer I sat silent with my sister—until, indeed, the restless footfalls ceased, and the blessed quiet of night fell once again. “An’, Bessie,” said I, “he said a queer thing.” She glanced a question. “He said your name!” She was much interested—but hopelessly puzzled. For a moment she gazed intently at the stars. Then she sighed. “He’ve a great grief,” I repeated, sighing, “an’ he’ve been wicked.” “Oh, no—not wicked!” “Ay,” I persisted, gently, “wicked; for he’ve told me so with his own tongue.” “Not wicked!” “But he’ve said so,” I insisted, nettled, on the instant, by my sister’s perversity. “I’m thinkin’ he couldn’t be,” she said. “Sure, why not?” I demanded. She looked away for a moment—through the window, into the far, starlit sky, which the light of the moon was fast paling; and I thought my question forgot. “Why not, sister?” “I—don’t know—why not!” she whispered. I kissed my sister good-night, while yet she puzzled over this, and slipped off to my own room, lifting my night-dress, as I tiptoed along, lest I trip and by some clumsy commotion awake my friend to his bitterness. Once back in my bed—once again lying alone in the tranquil night—I found the stars still peeping in at my window, still twinkling companionably, |
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