There was yet one tender spot in my uncle's heart, one sprinkle of poetry in his nature. He adored flowers, especially roses, and he did not even grudge money to secure rare specimens. His flower-garden was a real fairy bower, and the old man, with the flowing snow-white hair and beard, pruning and grafting continually, resembled some sorcerer who, with a single touch of his withered hands, could create or destroy all the beauty around him.
I found him there among his roses when I came. He recognised me at once, although the last ten years had considerably changed my appearance. He was looking just the same as he did ten years ago; not altered in the least. He was as dry, as wrinkled, and as white as when I had last seen him, and his eyes appeared by no means less sharp than at the time I speak of.
"Happy to see you, my dear fellow!" he said. "I should have known you wherever I met you. You look like the old boy you were."
"So I do, because of my clean-shaven face, uncle. I do not care for the manly beauty of a moustache and beard. But I must return your compliment. You have not aged in the least, and I can hardly believe in your wanting a physician at all. You do not look like it."
He chuckled. "Well, well, I don't think you are much mistaken; but sit down here in the bower: my room is not quite so pleasant and orderly a place. I must call the gardener--"
"Don't take the least trouble, uncle," I said. "I shall not stay with you, as I ordered a room at the inn and also my dinner. I had a hearty lunch half an hour ago, and so you need not worry about my comfort. Now tell me what ails you, pray, and then I'll see what I can do for you."
"Nothing in the least with regard to my health, for I am not a bit worse than I was ten years ago, and far better than most others at my age. I am ninety-seven, as you know, and that's no trifle. It would be foolish to expect anything better, and you could not prevent my dying about this time next year."
"Oh! you are hypochondriac, I see, and give way to fancies! Come in, and let me examine you professionally, for such fancies are always the result of some serious disorder."
"There you are mistaken, my boy. My heart, lungs, liver, and the rest of it are all right, and I am not melancholy. Neither am I weak-minded or nervous, and you need not look into my eyes or feel my pulse. I have known these four years that I am to die at the time I mentioned, although I am sure, when I tell you how I came to know it, you will call me superstitious. For you fellows of the present day are so sceptical and matter-of-fact that you refuse to believe in anything that cannot be proved by optical inspection or by evidence. It was, as I said, just four years ago, on my ninety-third birthday, when St. John the Nepomuc appeared to me in a dream, and said--'Dionysius, my good fellow, make the best of your time! There are only five more years for you in store, and then you must die! no help for it!' Since that time he comes to me every year regularly on the night of my birthday, and repeats his warning, each time giving me one year less. Last week was my birthday, and he gave me the last warning. Next time he comes I shall have to go. So--"