Page:The Father Confessor, Stories of Danger and Death.djvu/305

Rh A low groan from the bed made me look round. Walter Barrington lay there, older, more insignificant than ever, his face withered with pain. I went to his side, full of pity; he motioned me to be seated. For some minutes he could not speak, seeming to be in great agony. I looked round the room, seeking something to ease him, but did not know what to do. I was struck with the untidy, bare room, the uncarpeted floor, the uncurtained windows, the medicine bottles and details of an invalid chamber all about within sight of the sick man. Through the walls came the sound of music—gig—gig—gig. It burst upon me with a shock; it was from my own house.

"I must stop that dancing," I said aloud; "it's horrible!"

Walter Barrington shook his head. "No, no; I like it," he whispered. "Agnes is there; I made her go. Agnes is dancing."

"She is there," I said, "looking so pretty." He smiled feebly. "But you must not be worried with noises."

He shook his head again. "It's nothing. I like it." Then he looked pleadingly at me. "I sent for you. You are kind to come."