er to
speak--if only one word.

"He cannot speak, you know, but he does indeed forgive you. Be sure that
he forgives you!"

Her husband drew her away to the little curtained alcove which had
been Mrs. Harper's dressing-room. There they stood, close together--for
Nathanael did not let her go, and she clung to him in tears--while the
father and son had their reconciliation.

It was silent throughout, for after the first burst, Major Harper was
not heard to speak. Now and then came a sound like the smothered sob of
a boy. No one saw the faces of father and son; they were bent together,
just as when, years upon years ago, the proud father had sometimes
condescended to let his baby son, his first-born and heir, go to sleep
upon his shoulder.

Thus, after many minutes, Nathanael found them lying.

He held the curtain aside to see his father's countenance; it was very
peaceful now, though with a dimness gathering in the open eyes. Agatha
had never before seen that look--the unmistakable shadow of death. She
shrank back, trembling violently. Her husband put his arm round her.

"Do not be afraid, my child," he whispered, using the old word and tone.
She rested on him, and was quieted.

"I think we had better call them all in now."

"Shall I fetch them?" said his wife, and went out, flitting once more
through the still, ghostly house. But she thought of her husband, of his
last word and look, and had no fear.

They came in, all that were now living of the old man's children--save
one--the poor Elizabeth. They stood round the bed, a full circle, his
two sons, his three daughters, his son-in-law and daughter-in-law, and
lastly Anne Valery. She was the palest and most serene of all.

Thus for an hour or more they waited--so slow was the last closing
of the long-drawn-out life. There was no pain or struggle; merely the
ebbing away of breath. The palsied hands, white and beautiful to the
last, lay smooth on the counterpane; and when occasionally one or other
of his daughters knelt down and kissed him, the old man feebly smiled.
But whenever he opened his eyes, they travelled no farther than to the
face of his eldest son--rested there, brightened and closed.

And thus, lying quietly in the midst of his children, at daybreak the
old Squire died.

CHAPTER XXVI.

The old man was gathered to his fathers.

It was the day after that on which he had been borne to the place
appointed for all living. A new coffin rested