y friendly with
each other."

Duff Salter already had the meagre little man upon his breast, and his
long, hale beard descended upon the pale and aged face.

Mrs. Knox Van de Lear seated herself at the piano and began a hymn, and
Calvin Van de Lear accompanied her, singing bass. The old man closed his
eyes on Duff Salter's breast, and Mr. Knox Van de Lear went out softly
to send for a physician. Duff Salter, looking up at a catch in the
singing, saw that Calvin Van de Lear was leaning familiarly on the
lady's shoulder while he turned the leaves of the book of sacred music.

"I am very sick," said the old clergyman, still shaken by the chills.
"Perhaps we shall meet together no more. My fellow-executor, do my part
in this world! In all my life of serving the church and its Divine
Master, I have first looked out for the young people. They are most
helpless, most valuable. See that Sister Agnes is mercifully cared for!
If young Andrew Zane returns, deal gently with him too. Let us be kind
to the dear boys, though they go astray. The dear, dear boys!"

Duff Salter received the brave little man's head again upon his breast,
and said to himself:

"May God speedily take him away in mercy!"

The doctor, returning with Knox Van de Lear, commanded the minister to
be instantly removed to a chamber, and Duff Salter, unassisted, walked
up-stairs with him like a father carrying his infant to bed. As they
placed the wasted figure away beneath the coverlets, he put his arm
around Duff Salter's neck.

"Brother," he said hoarsely, the chill having him in its grasp, "God has
blessed you. Can you help my new church?"

"I promise you," said Duff Salter, "that after your people have done
their best I will give the remainder. It shall be built!"

"Now, God be praised!" whispered the dying pastor. "And let Thy servant
depart in peace."

"Amen!" from somewhere, trembled through the chamber as Duff Salter, his
feet muffled like his voice, in the habit of mute people who walk as
they hear, passed down the stairway.

Duff Salter took his seat in the dining-room, which was an extension of
Knox Van de Lear's plain parlor, and buried his face in his palms. Years
ago, when a boy, he had attended preaching in Silas Van de Lear's little
chapel, and it touched him deeply that the nestor of the suburb was
about to die; the last of the staunch old pastors of the kirk who had
never been silent when liberty was in peril. The times were not the