s a man but a little while, his instinct being of death
perhaps, at least as much as of life (which accounts for his slaying his
fellow men so, and every other creature), it does not take a man very
long to enter into another man's death, and bring his own mood to suit
it. He knows that his own is sure to come; and nature is fond of the
practice. Hence it came to pass that I, after easing my mother's fears,
and seeing a little to business, returned (as if drawn by a polar
needle) to the death-bed of Sir Ensor.

There was some little confusion, people wanting to get away, and people
trying to come in, from downright curiosity (of all things the most
hateful), and others making great to-do, and talking of their own time
to come, telling their own age, and so on. But every one seemed to
think, or feel, that I had a right to be there; because the women took
that view of it. As for Carver and Counsellor, they were minding their
own affairs, so as to win the succession; and never found it in their
business (at least so long as I was there) to come near the dying man.

He, for his part, never asked for any one to come near him, not even
a priest, nor a monk or friar; but seemed to be going his own way,
peaceful, and well contented. Only the chief of the women said that from
his face she believed and knew that he liked to have me at one side of
his bed, and Lorna upon the other. An hour or two ere the old man died,
when only we two were with him, he looked at us both very dimly and
softly, as if he wished to do something for us, but had left it now too
late. Lorna hoped that he wanted to bless us; but he only frowned at
that, and let his hand drop downward, and crooked one knotted finger.

"He wants something out of the bed, dear," Lorna whispered to me; "see
what it is, upon your side, there."

I followed the bent of his poor shrunken hand, and sought among the
pilings; and there I felt something hard and sharp, and drew it forth
and gave it to him. It flashed, like the spray of a fountain upon us, in
the dark winter of the room. He could not take it in his hand, but let
it hang, as daisies do; only making Lorna see that he meant her to have
it.

"Why, it is my glass necklace!" Lorna cried, in great surprise; "my
necklace he always promised me; and from which you have got the ring,
John. But grandfather kept it, because the children wanted to pull it
from my neck. May I have it now, dear grandfather? Not unless you wish,