"I don't mean that way. Sit down." He looked feebly for a chair.

Uncle William had drawn one up to the bed. He sat down, bending forward
a little. One big hand rested on the young man's wrist. "Now, tell me
all about it," he said quietly.

The artist raised his eyes with a smile. He drew a deep breath.
"Yes--you've come," he said. "You've come."

"I've come," said Uncle William. His big bulk had not stirred. It seemed
to fill the room.

The sick man rested in it. His eyes closed. "I've wanted--you."

Uncle William nodded. "Sick folks get fancies," he said.

"--and I kept seeing you in the fever--and you--" The voice droned away
and was still.

Uncle William sat quiet, one hand on the thin wrist. The galloping pulse
slowed--and leaped again--and fluttered, and fell at last to even beats.
The tense muscles relaxed. The parted lips closed with a half-smile.

Uncle William bent forward, watching it. In the dim light of the room,
his face had a kind of gentleness--a kindliness and bigness that watched
over the night and reached out beyond it to the ends of the earth.