It hurt me sorely to
think that the man would thus in impulsive haste depart, after these
years of intimate companionship, with a regard so small for my wishes
in the matter. Go to sleep like a babe? I could not go to sleep at
all; I could but lie awake in trouble. John Cather was packing up; he
was going away! My uncle helped him with his trunks down the stairs
and to the stage-head, where, no doubt, my uncle's punt was waiting to
board the belated mail-boat--the mean little trunk John Cather had
come with, and the great leather one I had bought him in London. I
was glad, at any rate, that my gifts--the books and clothes and
what-not I had bought him abroad--were not to be left to haunt me. But
that John Cather should not say good-bye! I could not forgive him
that. I waited and waited, lying awake in the dark, for him to come.
And come he did, when the trunks were carried away and the whistle of
the mail-boat had awakened our harbor. He pushed my door open without
knocking, knowing well enough that I was wide awake. 'Twas then dark
in my room; he could not see me.

"Where are your matches?" says he.

I told him, but did not like the manner of his speech. 'Twas in a way
to rouse the antagonism of any man, being most harsh and hateful.

"I can't find them," he complained.

"You'll find them well enough, John Cather," I chided, "an you looks
with patience."

He had no patience, it seemed, but continued to fumble about, and at
last, with his back turned to me, got my lamp lighted. For a moment he
stood staring at the wall, as though he lacked the resolution to turn.
And when he wheeled I knew that I looked upon the countenance of a man
who had been broken on the wheel; and I was very much afraid. John
Cather was splashed and streaked with the mud of the hills. 'Twas not
this evidence of passionate wandering that alarmed me; 'twas his
pallor and white lips, his agonized brows, the gloomy depth to which
his bloodshot eyes had withdrawn.

"Now," says he, "I want to look at you."

I did not want to be looked at.

"Sit up!" he commanded.

I sat up in bed.

"Put the blanket down," says he. "I have come, I say, to look at
you."

I uncovered to my middle.

"And _this_," says he, "is the body of you, is it?"

The lamp was moved close to my face. John Cather laughed, and began,
in a way I may not set down, to comment upon me. 'Twas not agreeable.
I tried to stop him. 'Twas unkind to me and 'twas most injurious to