Then old Mr. Bowdoin, with the box under his arm, hurried down to
Salem Street. Jamie still lay there, unconscious of earthly things.
For many weeks, his spirit, like a tired bird, had hovered between
this world and the next, uncertain where to alight.
For many weeks he had been, as we call it, out of his head. Harley had
had time to go to New Orleans and return, Mercedes and Soto to die,
and all these meetings about less important things to happen at the
bank; and still old Jamie's body lay in the little house in Salem
Street, his mind far wandering. But in all his sixty years of gray
life, up to then, I doubt if his soul had been so happy. Dare we even
say it was less real? Old Mr. Bowdoin laid the chest beside the door,
and listened.
For Jamie was wandering with Mercedes under sunny skies; and now, for
many days, his ravings had not been of money or of this world's duty,
but only of her. It had been so from about the time she must have
died; dare one suppose he knew it? So his mind was still with her.
The doctors, though, were very anxious for his mind, still wandering.
If his body returned to life, they feared that his mind would not.
But the Bowdoins and little Sarah sat and watched there.
It came that morning,--it was late in May; so calmly that for some
moments they did not notice it,--old Mr. Bowdoin and the little girl.
Jamie opened his eyes to look out on this world again so naturally
that they did not see that he had waked; only he lay there, looking
out of the window, and puzzling at a blossom that was on a tree below;
for he remembered, when he had gone to sleep the night before, it was
March weather, and the snow lay on the ground. The snow lay thick upon
the ground as he was walking to the station. How could spring have
come in a night? Where was--What world was this?
For his eyes traveled down the room to where, sitting at the foot of
his bed to be the first to be seen by him, Jamie saw his little girl
as he remembered her.
Mr. Bowdoin started as the look of seeing came back to Jamie's eyes.
But the little girl, as she had been told to do, ran forward and took
the old clerk's hand.
It was very quiet in the room. Old Mr. Bowdoin dared not speak; he
sat there rubbing his spectacles.