"
"No, Bessie; never any more warmth for me. I know it now; the end is
very near, and the birds are singing everywhere, just as they sang in
the summer mornings years ago, when I was a boy. I used to lie on the
grass under the yews, and listen to them, and think they were singing of
my future, which I meant should be so bright. Oh, Bessie, everything has
been so different; everything has changed but you and the birds, singing
now to me of another future which _will_ be bright and fair. What season
is it, Bessie? My mind wanders a little. Is it summer again in the dear
old rose-scented-garden?"
"Yes, father; summer everywhere," Bessie answered him with a choking
sob, and he continued:
"I am glad. I would rather die in the summer time just as father and
mother did. Bury me by them, Bessie; with no expense, and when Daisy
dies lay her by me, too, in the grass where the birds are singing. She
ought to be here now--to-day; send for her, Bessie; send at once, if a
telegram can reach her."
Bessie must tell him now, and kissing his pale forehead, she said:
"A telegram cannot reach her, father, for she is on the sea, going to
America.
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