d's grief.

I reported to Gwen, who answered in her old imperious way, "Tell him I
want him." I took Bill the message.

"Why didn't you say so before?" he said, and, starting up, he passed
into the house and took up his position behind Gwen's chair. Opposite,
and leaning against the door, stood The Duke, with a look of quiet
earnestness on his handsome face. At his side stood the Hon.
Fred Ashley, and behind him the Old Timer, looking bewildered and
woe-stricken. The Pilot had filled a large place in the old man's life.
The rest of the men stood about the room and filled the kitchen beyond,
all quiet, solemn, sad.

In Gwen's room, the one farthest in, lay The Pilot, stately and
beautiful under the magic touch of death. And as I stood and looked down
upon the quiet face I saw why Gwen shed no tear, but carried a look of
serene triumph. She had read the face aright. The lines of weariness
that had been growing so painfully clear the last few months were
smoothed out, the look of care was gone, and in place of weariness and
care, was the proud smile of victory and peace. He had met his foe and
was surprised to find his terror gone.

The service was beautiful in its simplicity. The minister, The Pilot's
chief, had come out from town to take charge. He was rather a little
man, but sturdy and well set. His face was burnt and seared with the
suns and frosts he had braved for years. Still in the prime of his
manhood, his hair and beard were grizzled and his face deep-lined, for
the toils and cares of a pioneer missionary's life are neither few nor
light. But out of his kindly blue eye looked the heart of a hero, and
as he spoke to us we felt the prophet's touch and caught a gleam of the
prophet's fire.

"I have fought the fight," he read. The ring in his voice lifted up all
our heads, and, as he pictured to us the life of that battered hero who
had written these words, I saw Bill's eyes begin to gleam and his lank
figure straighten out its lazy angles. Then he turned the leaves quickly
and read again, "Let not your heart be troubled . . . in my father's
house are many mansions." His voice took a lower, sweeter tone; he
looked over our heads, and for a few moments spoke of the eternal hope.
Then he came back to us, and, looking round into the faces turned so
eagerly to him, talked to us of The Pilot--how at the first he had sent
him to us with fear and trembling--he was so young--but how he had come
to trust in him and to