From that moment of prayer (as she afterwards
superstitiously thought) Willie calmed--and then he drooped--and then
he sank--and, last of all, he died in reality from physical
exhaustion.
But he was so gentle and tender as he lay on his dying bed; such
strange, child-like gleams of returning intelligence came over his
face, long after the power to make his dull, inarticulate sounds had
departed, that Susan was attracted to him by a stronger tie than she
had ever felt before. It was something to have even an idiot loving
her with dumb, wistful, animal affection; something to have any
creature looking at her with such beseeching eyes, imploring
protection from the insidious enemy stealing on. And yet she knew
that to him death was no enemy, but a true friend, restoring light
and health to his poor clouded mind. It was to her that death was an
enemy; to her, the survivor, when Willie died; there was no one to
love her.
Worse doom still, there was no one left on earth for her to love.
You now know why no wandering tourist could persuade her to receive
him as a lodger; why no tired traveller could melt her heart to
afford him rest and refreshment; why long habits of seclusion had
given her a moroseness of manner, and how care for the interests of
another had rendered her keen and miserly.
Pages:
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81