L. Frank Baum

“ Master Tom's last will. Isn't my name on it, too, where I signed it? And the conductor's beside it, for the poor brakeman didn't dare let him go? Of course. Who should sign the will with Master Tom but me—his old servant and friend? Am I right, Donald?"
"Yes, lad."
"'Now,' says Master Tom, 'take it to Lawyer Watson, James, and bid him care for it. And give my love to Jane—that's the name, Donald; the one I thought I'd forgot—'and now lay me back and let me die.' His very words, Donald. And we laid him back and he died. And he died. Poor Master Tom. Poor, poor young Master. ”

“ Finally he smiled.
"Ah, it's Donald," he said.
"Yes, old friend," answered the coachman. "And this is Mr. John."
"Mr. John? Mr. John? I don't quite remember you, sir," with a slight shake of the gray head. "And Donald, lad, you've grown wonderful old, somehow."
"It's the years, Jeemes," was the reply. "The years make us all old, sooner or later."
The gardener seemed puzzled, and examined his companions more carefully. He did not seem to be suffering any pain. ”

“ Finally he sighed.
"The dreams confuse me," he said, as if to explain something. "I can't always separate them, the dreams from the real. Have I been sick, Donald?"
"Yes, lad. You're sick now."
The gardener closed his eyes, and lay silent.
"Do you think he's sane?" whispered Uncle John.
"I do, sir. He's sane for the first time in years."
James looked at them again, and slowly raised his hand to wipe the damp from his forehead.
"About Master Tom," he said, falteringly. "Master Tom's dead, ain't he?" ”