MY father lay stretched across the bed as still as if the hand of death
had pushed him down, for a full hour and a half before he began to play
upon the floor with the toe of that foot which hung over the bed-side;
my uncle _Toby_’s heart was a pound lighter for it.——In a few moments,
his left-hand, the knuckles of which had all the time reclined upon the
handle of the chamber-pot, came to its feeling—he thrust it a little
more within the valance—drew up his hand, when he had done, into his
bosom—gave a hem! My good uncle _Toby_, with infinite pleasure,
answered it; and full gladly would have ingrafted a sentence of
consolation upon the opening it afforded: but having no talents, as I
said, that way, and fearing moreover that he might set out with
something which might make a bad matter worse, he contented himself
with resting his chin placidly upon the cross of his crutch.
Now whether the compression shortened my uncle _Toby_’s face into a
more pleasurable oval—or that the philanthropy of his heart, in seeing
his brother beginning to emerge out of the sea of his afflictions, had
braced up his muscles——so that the compression upon his chin only
doubled the benignity which was there before, is not hard to
decide.——My father, in turning his eyes, was struck with such a gleam
of sun-shine in his face, as melted down the sullenness of his grief in
a moment.
He broke silence as follows: