d.
It grasped Philip's with feeble, despairing energy. The old man was
fighting with the fear of death. And Philip thought that all must go
through that. Oh, how monstrous it was, and they could believe in a God
that allowed his creatures to suffer such a cruel torture! He had never
cared for his uncle, and for two years he had longed every day for his
death; but now he could not overcome the compassion that filled his heart.
What a price it was to pay for being other than the beasts!

They remained in silence broken only once by a low inquiry from Mr. Carey.

"Hasn't he come yet?"

At last the housekeeper came in softly to say that Mr. Simmonds was there.
He carried a bag in which were his surplice and his hood. Mrs. Foster
brought the communion plate. Mr. Simmonds shook hands silently with
Philip, and then with professional gravity went to the sick man's side.
Philip and the maid went out of the room.

Philip walked round the garden all fresh and dewy in the morning. The
birds were singing gaily. The sky was blue, but the air, salt-laden, was
sweet and cool. The roses were in full bloom. The green of the trees, the
green of the lawns, was eager and brilliant. Philip walked, and as he
walked he thought of the mystery which was proceeding in that bedroom. It
gave him a peculiar emotion. Presently Mrs. Foster came out to him and
said that his uncle wished to see him. The curate was putting his things
back into the black bag. The sick man turned his head a little and greeted
him with a smile. Philip was astonished, for there was a change in him, an
extraordinary change; his eyes had no longer the terror-stricken look, and
the pinching of his face had gone: he looked happy and serene.

"I'm quite prepared now," he said, and his voice had a different tone in
it. "When the Lord sees fit to call me I am ready to give my soul into his
hands."

Philip did not speak. He could see that his uncle was sincere. It was
almost a miracle. He had taken the body and blood of his Savior, and they
had given him strength so that he no longer feared the inevitable passage
into the night. He knew he was going to die: he was resigned. He only said
one thing more:

"I shall rejoin my dear wife."

It startled Philip. He remembered with what a callous selfishness his
uncle had treated her, how obtuse he had been to her humble, devoted love.
The curate, deeply moved, went away and Mrs. Foster, weeping, accompanied
him to the door. Mr. Car