"
"It's the years, Jeemes," was the reply. "The years make us all old,
sooner or later."
The gardener seemed puzzled, and examined his companions more
carefully. He did not seem to be suffering any pain. Finally he
sighed.
"The dreams confuse me," he said, as if to explain something. "I can't
always separate them, the dreams from the real. Have I been sick,
Donald?"
"Yes, lad. You're sick now."
The gardener closed his eyes, and lay silent.
"Do you think he's sane?" whispered Uncle John.
"I do, sir. He's sane for the first time in years."
James looked at them again, and slowly raised his hand to wipe the
damp from his forehead.
"About Master Tom," he said, falteringly. "Master Tom's dead, ain't
he?"
"Yes, Jeemes."
"That was real, then, an' no dream. I mind it all, now--the shriek of
the whistle, the crash, and the screams of the dying. Have I told you
about it, Donald?"
"No, lad."
"It all happened before we knew it. I was on one side the car and
Master Tom on the other. My side was on top, when I came to myself,
and Master Tom was buried in the rubbish. God knows how I got him out,
but I did.
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