At the coming of winter, Uncle Zed was bedfast. He was failing rapidly.
Neighbors helped him. Dorian remained with him as much as he could. The
bond which had existed between these two grew stronger as the time
of separation became nearer. The dying man was clear-minded, and he
suffered very little pain. He seemed completely happy if he could have
Dorian sitting by him and they could talk together. And these were
wonderful days to the young man, days never to be forgotten.

Outside, the air was cold with gusts of wind and lowering clouds.
Inside, the room was cosy and warm. A few of the old man's hardiest
flowers were still in pots on the table where the failing eyes could see
them. That evening Mrs. Trent had tidied up the room and had left Dorian
to spend the night with the sick man. The tea-kettle hummed softly on
the stove. The shaded lamp was turned down low.

"Dorian."

"Yes, Uncle Zed."

"Turn up the lamp a little. It's too dark in here."

"Doesn't the light hurt your eyes!"

"No; besides I want you to get me some papers out of that drawer in my
desk."

Dorian fetched a large bundle of clippings and papers and asked if they
were what he wanted.