He had coldly read again the
former epistle, and altered his mind concerning it. Barron wanted Joan back
again sometimes, if life dragged more than usual; but pens and paper
generally modified his desire when he got that far toward calling her to
him. Her memory tickled him pleasantly and whiled away time. He framed the
various sketches he had made of her and suffered thought to occupy itself
with her as with no other woman who had entered his life. But the day on
which he wrote to Murdoch was a good one with him. He felt stronger and
better able to suck pleasure out of living than he had for a month.
"When I whistle she will come," he thought to himself. "Perhaps there would
be some pleasure in taking her to Biskra presently. I will wait, at any
rate, until nearer the last scene. She would be pretty to look at when I'm
dying. Yes, she shall close my eyes some day, if she likes. That's a
pleasant thought--for me."
So the letter to Murdoch was sent forth, but the letter to Joan, containing
some poetic thoughts on Nature, a pathetic description of Barron's
enfeebled state, and an appeal to her to join him that they might part no
more on this side the grave, was torn up. He laughed at the trouble he had
taken to print it all, and pondered pleasantly on the picture which Murdoch
had drawn of Joan ruling the kingdom of the meadowsweets, of her eager
question concerning "Mister Jan.
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