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 somber as her countenance. "She has been asking for you for an hour. She is very low to-day. The doctor is with her and he is apprehensive."

Through air that was close with a sickish, sweetish smell, accounted for by large vases of flowers and by a small Chinese censer with incense burning in it, past furnishings, that were meager, stuffy, and old-fashioned, John was conducted to a large square room with the blinds drawn low. In the center of this room was a huge black walnut bedstead, with the head rising pompously high. By the far side of the bed sat a professional looking man in the fifties, with his chin buried in his hand and his eyes meditatively fixed upon a very old and dreary face amid the banked-up pillows,—a face of purplish hue that seemed without expression except for a lipless, sunken mouth, and eyes that glowed dully under sagging heavy lids.

"Mother!" said the woman, speaking loudly, as if to waken a soul from the depths, "this is Brother Hampstead!"

The aged eyes roamed the shadows anxiously for a moment, while a withered purple hand felt its way about upon the coverlet till John touched it timidly with his. Instantly and convulsively the old fingers gripped the young, with a pressure that to the caller was damp and deathly.

The woman appeared to John almost lifeless. He felt embarrassment and resentment. Why didn't they tell him she was like this?

The hand was tugging at him, too, like a sort of undertow, pulling him down and over. The watery old eyes were fixed upon him. John's embarrassment increased. What did the poor creature want? To kiss him? What does a minister do in such a case, he wondered, sweat breaking out on his brow.