There was a little oak table before him, with his copy of Plato's Dialogues and a black leather Bible that had belonged to his forefathers, lying upon it; but both of them were closed, and he looked drowsy and listless.
"Good sakes! Phebe," cried Mrs.Nixey, "whatever ails thy father?
He looks more like dust and ashes than a livin' man.

Hast thou sent for no physic for him ?" "I didn't know he was ill," answered Phebe.

"Father always feels the winter long and trying.

He'll be all right when the spring comes." "I'll ask him what's the matter with him," said Mrs.Nixey, drawing his slate to her, and writing in the boldest letters she could form, as if his deafness made it needful to write large.
"What's the matter ?" she asked.
"Nothing, save old age," he answered in his small, neat hand-writing.
There was a gentle smile on his face as he pushed the slate under the eyes of Mrs.Nixey and Phebe.

He had sometimes thought he must tell Phebe he would not be long with her, but his hands refused to convey such sad warnings to his young daughter.