Then she was alarmed. He breathed with difficulty, he looked terribly frail, white, with faint red discolorations. She had “had trouble” with him, Goodness knew; but he was James, had been James for nearly fifty years; she couldn’t remember or imagine life without James⁠—James, behind all his fussiness, his pessimism, his crusty shell, deeply affectionate, really kind and generous to them all!

All that day and the next he hardly uttered a word, but there was in his eyes a noticing of everything done for him, a look on his face which told her he was fighting; and she did not lose hope. His very stillness, the way he conserved every little scrap of energy, showed the tenacity with which he was fighting. It touched her deeply; and though her face was composed and comfortable in the sickroom, tears ran down her cheeks when she was out of it.