,
that woke nerves to suffering which only drink could dull?

The day of the service in St. Peter's we all set forth in one carriage,
Reverdy riding on the box, and Isabel, Uncle Tom, and I in the seat. I
noticed that Uncle Tom was more than usually self-absorbed. Isabel
patted his hand or held it, and talked to him of the objects of interest
along the way.

The service was about to begin when we entered. We walked as far as the
bronze plate which marks the comparative length of the Cathedral of
Milan, and I was looking toward the bronze pavilion with its twisted
columns which tents the tomb of St. Peter, through and around these
columns at the candles on the altar. Chanting voices echoed, soared in
hollow reverberations up and about the arches, the domes; an organ was
giving forth soft thunder in some hidden quarter.

Suddenly Uncle Tom steps back, sways, coughs. Isabel utters a slight
cry; I look at Uncle Tom and take him by the arm. Bystanders help me
support him. He has turned very pale, blue at the lips. With the
assistance of two men we take him to a carriage, drive to the pension.
We put him to bed and send for a physician.

Reverdy is sent away, and Isabel and I watch. For Uncle Tom is dying.
The doctor says it is only a matter of a few hours. Uncle Tom wishes to
make a will. Will I write it out for him? His thoughts are clear. He
remembers his possessions, his relations. To brothers and sisters he
gives handsome purses, all the rest to Isabel.

"Isabel," he says with difficulty. "Yes, my dear," she replies in a
voice of great tenderness. "Isabel, I want to give Jimmy something--ten
thousand dollars." Before she can speak I interject: "I do not need it,
Uncle Tom." He rolled his head in a negative, turned his hand feebly. "I
give it to you that you may do something for her. Then it will be from
you and from me too." Isabel stifles a sob by placing her hands tightly
over her mouth. "Write," says Uncle Tom; and I write.

The will is written. The doctor has come again. Uncle Tom signs the will
in our presence. Then he asks the doctor for medicine for his lungs. "I
seem to have a cough," he says. But it is not his lungs but his heart.
We are standing by the bed. Uncle Tom takes our hands and puts them
together. Instantly his head sinks upon the pillow. He is dead. The
doctor walks from the room. Isabel and I stand by the bed with closed
eyes, holding hands.

CHAPTER LV

Standing beside the dead bod