"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 body of this man a future with Isabel took form
in my heart. Love is a great solemnity itself. And in this moment I felt
that Isabel shared my vision.
We buried Uncle Tom. Then Isabel began to prepare to sail for America.
Of course no trip now around the world. She must go back to Connecticut,
but she must go alone. That was her wish. It was understood that I
should follow her later. This much was definite between us. Many plans
filled her mind. She had a large estate to put in order. There were
lawyers and agents to consult. I really wished to return with her in
order to assist her. But she said: "It is best for you to stay here for
a while. We shall write to each other. Later I wish you to come."
The question in my mind was not shall we be married, but when shall we
be married.
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