The abrupt withdrawal of her hand from his arm when they reached the door told him that she did not wish him to enter the house with her, and he as abruptly drew back, feeling the blood rush to his face as Sidney came out of Miss Judy's room to receive his grandmother. Returning to his seat on the bench under the window, he tried not to strain his ears toward what was passing within the room, and he heard only the indistinct murmur of voices. But he could not help wondering miserably why his grandmother had come. He knew her too well to think that she had been induced to come by pure fondness for Miss Judy, such as had brought all these other people, who were so patiently waiting with heavy hearts and wet eyes. The sudden thought of Doris--a formless fear for her--made him leap to his feet. And then he put away the vague alarm as unworthy of the rough justice, the haughty generosity, of his grandmother's character. He sat down humbly, ashamed of his passing suspicion, to wait with such patience and composure as he might muster till she should come from Miss Judy's room. But the intensity of his suspense became almost unendurable before it was ended. When his grandmother finally appeared in the passage door, he sprang up with a nervous start and hurried to help her to the coach. Again they were both silent until she was comfortably settled on the easy cushions, silent even until the bag had been rehung closer to her hand, and the little black boy was again seated on the refolded step. Then she told him, speaking slowly and gruffly as though she found the few words hard and bitter to utter, that Miss Judy had asked her to send him to the bedside. When this had been said, and he had made no reply, old lady Gordon sat still and silent for a moment, looking grimly straight ahead, as if there were something else which she wished to say. But if so it was never said; she suddenly and roughly ordered Enoch Cotton to drive her home, and went away--poor old lady Gordon--without a single backward glance. The young man then turned swiftly and went softly into Miss Judy's room, as the reverential enter a holy place. Doris, bending over the bed, did not see him come. Miss Sophia was dozing, worn out with watching and grief and--most of all--with trying to understand. Sidney sat motionless in the farthest corner of the quiet, shadowy old room, where the shadows were deepest. The only sound was the hushed murmur of the voices of the many others who loved Miss Judy and who watched and waited without; some in the parlor, which had been opened wide at last, others in the passage, and more in the yard.