I suppose we both tried to think out the best course for the future, but
for myself my brain refused to do aught but call up, and recall, and
recall again, that last meeting in Camslove Grange:
"I want the old place to have a good master.
"I want my son to be a gentleman.
"God bless you, old comrades."
Back they came, those old ghosts of the past, until the gentle,
well-bred voice seemed even now appealing to me, and the well-loved form
apparent before my eyes. And I writhed in my chair.
A little later the poet came in. He looked almost frightened, and spoke
in a hushed voice.
"Is--is he better?" he asked.
"He is asleep," I answered, moodily.
The poet sighed.
"Ah! that's good, that's good."
For a little while we talked, the aimless, useless talk of unnerved men,
and at last the poet suggested we should go upstairs.
As I held the candle over Tommy's bed we could see that the flush had
faded from his cheeks, and as he lay there he might well have been a
healthy cherub on some earthly holiday.