'
'No, Emily, I think you had better let me go.'
'Oh, no; I am not afraid.'
And she went up the wide oak staircase, thinking of the man who lay dead in
the room at the end of the passage. She was conscious of a sense of dread;
the house seemed to wear a strange air, and her dog, Dandy, was conscious
of it, too; he was more silent, less joyful than usual. And when she came
from her room, dressed to go out, instead of rushing down-stairs, barking
with joy, he dropped his tail and lingered at the end of the passage. She
called him; he still hesitated, and then, yielding to a sudden desire, she
went down the passage and knocked at the door of the room. The nurse
answered her knock.
'Oh, don't come in, miss.'
'Why not? I want to see him before he goes away for ever.'
Upon the limp, white curtains of an old four-posted bed she saw the
memorable profile--stern, unrelenting. How still he lay! Never would that
face speak or laugh or see again. Although sixty-five, his head was covered
with short, thick, iron-grey hair; the beard, too, was short and thick, and
iron-grey. The face was rugged, and when Emily touched the coarse hand,
telling of a life of toil, she started--it was singularly cold.
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