But, oh, what a heart-oppression it was, that my uncle had returned so
different! We were glad to have him, but how gladly would we not have let
him go again to restore him to himself, even were it never more to rest
our eyes upon him in this world! Dearly as I loved John, it seemed as if
nothing could make me happy while my uncle remained as he was. It was a
kind of cold despair to know him such impassable miles from me. I could
not get near him! I went about all day with a sense--not merely of loss,
but of a loss that gnawed at me with a sickening pain. He never spoke. He
never said _little one_ to me now! he never looked in my eyes as if he
loved me! He was very gentle, never complained, never even frowned, but
lay there with a dead question in his eyes. We feared his mind was
utterly gone.
By degrees his health returned, but apparently neither his memory, nor
his interest in life. Yet he had a far-away look in his eyes, as if he
remembered something, and started and turned at every opening of the
door, as if he expected something. He took to wandering about the yard
and the stable and the cow-house; would gaze for an hour at some animal
in its stall; would watch the men threshing the corn, or twisting
straw-ropes. When Dr. Southwell sent back his horse, it was in great hope
that the sight of Death would wake him up; that he would recognize his
old companion, jump on his back, and be well again; but my uncle only
looked at him with a faint admiration, went round him and examined him as
if he were a horse he thought of buying, then turned away and left him.
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