Uncle John followed the coachman up the stairs to the little room above the tool-house, where the old man had managed to crawl after old Sam had given him a vicious kick in the chest.  
"Is he dead?" he asked.
 
"No, sir; but mortally hurt, I'm thinkin'. It must have happened while we were at the funeral."
 
He opened the door, outside which Susan and Oscar watched with frightened faces, and led John Merrick into the room.
 
James lay upon his bed with closed eyes. His shirt, above the breast, was reeking¹ with blood.
 
"The doctor should be sent for," said Uncle John.
 
"He'll be here soon, for one of the stable boys rode to fetch him. But
I thought you ought to know at once, sir."
"Quite right, Donald."
 
As they stood there the wounded man moved and opened his eyes, looking from one to the other of them wonderingly. Finally he smiled.
 
"Ah, it's Donald," he said.
 
"Yes, old friend," answered the coachman. "And this is Mr. John."
 
"Mr. John? Mr. John? I don't quite remember you, sir," with a slight shake of the gray head. "And Donald, lad, you've grown wonderful old, somehow."
 
"It's the years, Jeemes," was the reply. "The years make us all old, sooner or later."
 
The gardener seemed puzzled, and examined his companions more carefully. He did not seem to be suffering any pain. Finally he sighed.
 
"The dreams confuse me," he said, as if to explain something. "I can't always separate them, the dreams from the real. Have I been sick, Donald?"
 
"Yes, lad. You're sick now."
 
The gardener closed his eyes, and lay silent.
 
"Do you think he's sane²?" whispered Uncle John.
 
"I do, sir. He's sane for the first time in years."
 
James looked at them again, and slowly raised his hand to wipe the damp from his forehead.
 
"About Master Tom," he said, falteringly³. "Master Tom's dead, ain't he?"
 
"Yes, Jeemes."
 
"That was real, then, an' no dream. I mind it all, now—the shriek⁴ of the whistle, the crash, and the screams of the dying. Have I told you about it, Donald?"
 
"No, lad."
 
"It all happened before we knew it. I was on one side the car and Master Tom on the other. My side was on top, when I came to myself, and Master Tom was buried in the rubbish. God knows how I got him out, but I did. Donald, the poor master's side was crushed in, and both legs splintered. I knew at once he was dying, when I carried him to the grass and laid him down; and he knew it, too. Yes, the master knew he was done; and him so young and happy, and just about to be married to—to—the name escapes me, lad!"
 
His voice sank to a low mumble⁵, and he closed his eyes wearily.
 
The watchers at his side stood still and waited. It might be that death had overtaken the poor fellow. But no; he moved again, and opened his eyes, continuing his speech in a stronger tone.
 
"It was hard work to get the paper for Master Tom," he said; "but he swore he must have it before he died. I ran all the way to the station house and back—a mile or more—and brought the paper and a pen and ink, besides. It was but a telegraph blank—all I could find. Naught⁶ but a telegraph blank, lad."
 
Again his voice trailed away into a mumbling⁷ whisper, but now Uncle
John and Donald looked into one another's eyes with sudden interest.
"He mustn't die yet!" said the little man; and the coachman leaned over the wounded form and said, distinctly:
 
"Yes, lad; I'm listening."
 
"To be sure," said James, brightening a bit. "So I held the paper for him, and the brakeman supported Master Tom's poor body, and he wrote out the will as clear as may be."
 
"The will!"
 
"Sure enough; Master Tom's last will. Isn't my name on it, too, where
I signed it? And the conductor's beside it, for the poor brakeman
didn't dare let him go? Of course. Who should sign the will with
Master Tom but me—his old servant and friend? Am I right, Donald?"
"Yes, lad."
 
"'Now,' says Master Tom, 'take it to Lawyer Watson, James, and bid him care for it. And give my love to Jane—that's the name, Donald; the one I thought I'd forgot—'and now lay me back and let me die.' His very words, Donald. And we laid him back and he died. And he died. Poor Master Tom. Poor, poor young Master. And him to—be married—in a—"
 
"The paper, James!" cried Uncle John, recalling the dying man to the present. "What became of it?"
 
"Sir, I do not know you," answered James, suspiciously. "The paper's for Lawyer Watson. It's he alone shall have it."
 
"Here I am, James," cried the lawyer, thrusting the others aside and advancing to the bed. "Give me the paper. Where is it? I am Lawyer Watson!"
 
The gardener laughed—a horrible, croaking⁸ laugh that ended with a gasp⁹ of pain.
 
&quo............