“He seems well enough now,” said Philip.

“I’m keeping him alive on drugs, but it can’t last.  It was dreadful these last two days, I thought he was dead half a dozen times.”

The doctor was silent for a minute or two, but at the gate he said suddenly to Philip: 

“Has Mrs. Foster said anything to you?”

“What d’you mean?”

“They’re very superstitious, these people:  she’s got hold of an idea that he’s got something on his mind, and he can’t die till he gets rid of it; and he can’t bring himself to confess it.”

Philip did not answer, and the doctor went on.

“Of course it’s nonsense.  He’s led a very good life, he’s done his duty, he’s been a good parish priest, and I’m sure we shall all miss him; he can’t have anything to reproach himself with.  I very much doubt whether the next vicar will suit us half so well.”

For several days Mr. Carey continued without change.  His appetite which had been excellent left him, and he could eat little.  Dr. Wigram did not hesitate now to still the pain of the neuritis which tormented him; and that, with the constant shaking of his palsied limbs, was gradually exhausting him.  His mind remained clear.  Philip and Mrs. Foster nursed him between them.  She was so tired by the many months during which she had been attentive to all his wants that Philip insisted on sitting up with the patient so that she might have her night’s rest.  He passed the long hours in an arm-chair so that he should not sleep soundly, and read by the light of shaded candles The Thousand and One Nights.  He had not read them since he was a little boy, and they brought back his childhood to him.  Sometimes he sat and listened to the silence of the night.  When the effects of the opiate wore off Mr. Carey grew restless and kept him constantly busy.

At last, early one morning, when the birds were chattering noisily in the trees, he heard his name called.  He went up to the bed.  Mr. Carey was lying on his back, with his eyes looking at the ceiling; he did not turn them on Philip.  Philip saw that sweat was on his forehead, and he took a towel and wiped it.

“Is that you, Philip?” the old man asked.

Philip was startled because the voice was suddenly changed.  It was hoarse and low.  So would a man speak if he was cold with fear.

“Yes, d’you want anything?”

There was a pause, and still the unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling.  Then a twitch passed over the face.

“I think I’m going to die,” he said.

“Oh, what nonsense!” cried Philip.  “You’re not going to die for years.”

Two tears were wrung from the old man’s eyes.  They moved Philip horribly.  His uncle had never betrayed any particular emotion in the affairs of life; and it was dreadful to see them now, for they signified a terror that was unspeakable.

“Send for Mr. Simmonds,” he said.  “I want to take the Communion.”