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Can I see him?" he inquired. "Surely, Marse Fabe! Ole marse wide awake, berry easy, and 'quiring arter you. Come in, sar!" Mr. Fabian entered the room, which was in some darkness from the closed window shutters, and went up to his father's bed. "I hope you are better, sir," he said. "I don't know," said the injured man, in a faint voice. "How are the works getting on?" "Famously, sir! Splendidly!
Then a voice that she recognized even in its low, whispering tones spoke and arrested the words on her lips. It said: "Fabe! Fabe! is that you?" "Yes. Is all quiet?" "Yes; and has been so for hours. Come in. Pass around, feeling by the wall until you reach the sofa. If you attempt to cross the room, you may strike a chair or table and make a noise, as I did."
Layin' dere jes' like a dead corpe, 'cept for breavin' hard," wept the woman. "Who is with him?" "Me mos' times an' young Mark. I jes' come down to speak 'long o' you, Marse Fabe, w'en I see de carriage dribe up." "Well, go back to your master. I will speak to my niece, and then come in," said Mr. Fabian, as he hurried out to the carriage.
Clarence, rolled off the boat on along the drive leading to the house. Meanwhile Mr. Fabian had re-entered the hall and hurried up to his father's room. He found the Iron King in bed, lying on his right side and breathing heavily. His eyes were half closed. "Father," said the son, in a low voice, taking his hand and bending over him. There was no response. "It ain't no use, Marster Fabe.
The door stood open, cold as the day was, and all things wore the neglected aspect of a dwelling wherein the master lay stricken unto death. The housekeeper, Martha, was coming down the stairs and crying. "How is your master?" breathlessly inquired Mr. Fabian. "Oh, Marse Fabe, sir, jes' livin', an' dat's all!" sobbed the woman. "Dunno nuffin.
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