Durrance
called at Hill Street the next afternoon and found Ethne alone.
"I did not write to Wadi Halfa," she explained at once, "for I thought
that you would be on your way home before my letter could arrive. My
father died last month, towards the end of May."
"I was afraid when I got your letter that you would have this to tell
me," he replied. "I am very sorry. You will miss him."
"More than I can say," said she, with a quiet depth of feeling. "He died
one morning early--I think I will tell you if you would care to hear,"
and she related to him the manner of Dermod's death, of which a chill
was the occasion rather than the cause; for he died of a gradual
dissolution rather than a definite disease.
It was a curious story which Ethne had to tell, for it seemed that just
before his death Dermod recaptured something of his old masterful
spirit. "We knew that he was dying," Ethne said. "He knew it too, and
at seven o'clock of the afternoon after--" she hesitated for a moment
and resumed, "after he had spoken for a little while to me, he called
his dog by name. The dog sprang at once on to the bed, though his voice
had not risen above a whisper, and crouching quite close, pushed its
muzzle with a whine under my father's hand.
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