“No, Frank, I can’t. Superintendent says to let nobody in.”
I heard a cough, then a feeble voice say pleadingly, “Maria, let him in, just a minute!”
The girl looked cautiously around, then said to me, “Come, but don’t let anybody see you. Don’t stay long, be quick!”
I stepped in, and a thin hand was stretched out to receive me. “I can’t talk much, I’m so weak,” said Brush. Overcome with emotion, I could not speak but stood holding his hot hand. The girl at the door moved uneasily.
“Tell the boys I’m all right,” said Brush. “They mustn’t worry. Come nearer.” I bent over him and he whispered, “Tonight, when everybody is asleep, come down and see me. I want to talk to you when I’m alone.”
As night came on we four sat under the walnut-tree watching Brush’s window. A candle was lit, then the curtain was drawn. Below in the dining-room, the large girls moved quietly to and fro, busy with their evening work. When this was finished, they gathered at the door, and softly sang that beautiful hymn, “Nearer my God to Thee.” We joined in the chorus, the wind waiting the words to the broad skies. The singing came to a close; the dining-room lights were put out, and we were called to bed.
As we knelt by the side of our beds to repeat the Lord’s prayer, I could not keep back the tears that came, thinking of the emaciated little form that I was to see once more that night.
One by one the boys fell asleep, and I alone, among the forty or fifty in that big room, remained awake. The clock down in Graybeard’s room struck eleven; the only sounds that came to my ears were those of the heavy breathing of the boys, the soughing of the wind through the trees, the rushing of the waters in the river, and now and then the calls of the wild geese, migrating in the night.
The clock struck the hour of twelve; I sat up listening. There was a stir and the sound of a voice that startled me. It was only Warren moving and talking in his sleep. I went stealthily to the head of the stairs, then listened again. I could only hear the throbbing of my heart, and the rasping pulsations in my ears. After a pause which seemed interminable, I put one foot down the first step, the board sprang under my weight, and creaked. Again I paused to listen; there was no stir, and I went on. Every little sound in the stillness of the night seemed exaggerated, and I was often startled, but I went on and reached the door of Brush’s room. I scratched the panel three times. There was a movement within, and a slight cough. Slowly I turned the knob and opened the door. I entered, closed the door, but left it unlatched.
A candle stood burning in the midst of a number of bottles on a little table near the head of the bed. I knelt by the bedside, and Brush put his arm around my neck. We were silent for a while, finally he whispered in the Omaha tongue:
“I’m glad you came; I’ve been wanting to talk to you. They tell me I am better; but I know I am dying.”
Oppressed with ominous dread, I cried out, interrupting him, “Don’t say that! Oh, don’t say that!”
But he went on, “You mustn’t be troubled; I’m all right; I’m not afraid; I know God will take care of me. I have wanted to stay with you boys, but I can’t. You’ve all been good to me. My strength is going, I must hurry—tell the boys I want them to learn; I know you will, but the other boys don’t care. I want them to learn, and to think. You’ll tell them, won’t you?”
He slipped his hand under the pillow, brought out his broken-bladed jackknife, and put it in my hand, then said, “I wish I had something to give to each one of the boys before I go. I have nothing in the world but this knife. I love all of you; but you understand me, so I give it to you. That’s all. Let me rest a little, then you must go.”
After a moment’s stillness the door opened very gently, and the floor near it creaked as though there were footsteps. A breath of wind came and moved the flickering flame of the candle round and round. The boy stared fixedly through the vacant doorway. There was something strange and unnatural in his look as, with one arm still around me, he stretched the other toward the door, and, in a loud whisper, said, “My grandfather! He calls me. I’m coming, I’m coming!”
There was a sound as of a movement around the room; Brush’s eyes followed it until they again rested upon the open door, which swung to with a soft click; then he closed his eyes.
I crept closer to the sick boy; I was quivering with fear. Brush opened his eyes again, he had felt me trembling. “Are you cold?” he asked.
Just then I heard footsteps in the girls’ playroom; this time they were real; Brush heard them too.
“Superintendent,” he said with an effort.
When I crept into my bed the clock below struck one. For a long while I lay awake. I could hear noises downstairs, Graybeard’s door open and close, and the door of Brush’s room. I heard a window raised, then everything became still.
We did not know how fondly we were attached to Brush, how truly he had been our leader, until we four, left alone, lingered around his grave in the shadowy darkness of night, each one reluctant to leave.
The Mission bell rang for evening service, and with slow
