“I know that well,” said I. “But tell me now.”
“Would you ride with me a little way tomorrow morning?” asked my aunt.
“Of course.”
“At nine,” said she. “I’ll tell you then, my dear.”
At nine, accordingly, we went out in a little chariot, and drove to London. We drove a long way through the streets, until we came to one of the large hospitals. Standing hard by the building was a plain hearse. The driver recognized my aunt, and, in obedience to a motion of her hand at the window, drove slowly off; we following.
“You understand it now, Trot,” said my aunt. “He is gone!”
“Did he die in the hospital?”
“Yes.”
She sat immovable beside me; but, again I saw the stray tears on her face.
“He was there once before,” said my aunt presently. “He was ailing a long time—a shattered, broken man, these many years. When he knew his state in this last illness, he asked them to send for me. He was sorry then. Very sorry.”
“You went, I know, aunt.”
“I went. I was with him a good deal afterwards.”