eaninglessly. But he clung to it now,
clung to it desperately. As a drowning man. He put his hand over his
eyes, his pain was forgotten:

Other lights are paling--which for long years we have
rejoiced to see...we would not mourn them for we go
to Thee!

Yes it was all right; he was ready now. He had come of a race of men
who feared not death in whatever form it came.

Bring us to our resting beds at night--weary and
content and undishonoured--and grant us in the end
the gift of sleep.

He repeated the prayer to himself slowly. That was it, weary and
content, and undishonoured.

"Pearl," he said, reaching out his burning hand until it rested on
hers, "all my letters are there in that black portmanteau, and the key
is in my pocket-book. I have a fancy that I would like no eye but yours
to see them--until I am quite well again."

She nodded.

"And if you...should have need...to write to Thursa, tell her I had
loving hands around me...at the last."

Pearl gently stroked his hand.

"And to my father write that I knew no fear"--his voice grew
steadier--"and passed out of life glad to have been a brave man's son,
and borne even for a few years a godly father's name."

"I will write it, Arthur," she said.

"And to my mother, Pearl" his voice wavered and broke--"my mother...for
I was her youngest child...tell her she was my last...and tenderest
thought."

Pearl pressed his hand tenderly against her weather-beaten little
cheek, for it was Danny now, grown a man but Danny still, who lay
before her, fighting for his life; and at the thought her tears fell
fast.

"Pearl," he spoke again, after a pause, pressing his hand to his
forehead, "while my mind holds clear, perhaps you would be good enough,
you have been so good to me, to say that prayer you learned. My father
will be in his study now, and soon it will be time for morning prayers.
I often feel his blessing on me, Pearl. I want to feel it now, bringing
peace and rest...weary and content and undishonoured,
and...undishonoured...and grant us..." His voice grew fainter and
trailed away into incoherency.

And now, oh thou dignified rector of St. Agnes, in thy home beyond the
sea, lay aside the "Appendix to the Apology of St. Perpetua," over
which thou porest, for under all thy dignity and formalism there beats
a loving father's heart. The shadows are gathering, dear sir, around
thy fifth son in a far country, and in the gathering shadows ther