foundithadcaughthiseye。
“GoodLord！”Icried；“isTHATstillgoingon！”
Thatnightthelittleclergymanwatched，andinthesmallhoursheraisedafalsealarmthatmyunclewasdying，andmadeanextraordinaryfuss。Heraisedthehouse。Ishallneverforgetthatscene，Ithink，whichbeganwithatappingatmybedroomdoorjustafterIhadfallenasleep，andhisvoice——
“Ifyouwanttoseeyourunclebeforehegoes，youmustcomenow。”
ThestuffylittleroomwascrowdedwhenIreachedit，andlitbythreeflickeringcandles。IfeltIwasbackintheeighteenthcentury。Therelaymypooruncleamidstindescribablytumbledbedclothes，wearyoflifebeyondmeasure，wearyandrambling，andthelittleclergymantryingtoholdhishandandhisattention，andrepeatingoverandoveragain：