s." With throbbing heart
he listened for another torrent of words that would still further stab
his sensitive soul; for he had loved and revered his master from his
youth up.

But no words came. He wheeled about. The massive head had fallen limply
among the pillows. Pallid lips were trying to form sentences without
result. Then the great body seemed to subside immeasurably deeper into
the covers and a death-like stillness fell upon the room.

Intuitively feeling that his master was worse than at any previous
relapse, Biggs made every effort to revive him, gently at first, and
then by vigorously shaking and calling to him in a heart-broken, piteous
voice. But to no avail. The heavy figure looked pallid and corpse-like
under the snowy sheets.

Long hours dragged by, and still the lonely old servant sat mutely
beside the bed, only aroused, at last, by the peremptory, measured call
of the telephone bell.

"Yes," said Biggs in a quavering voice. "Oh yes, Doctor Meredith,
Master's resting easy. Don't think you'll need to come until tomorrow."

"I'll keep them away as long as I can," he muttered, as he slipped back
to his vigil. "God grant--maybe he'll come back--and take up the work of
the Master, so long delayed. Oh God! If Thou wouldst only take me in his
stead!"

Sleeping fitfully, Biggs sat dumbly through an interminable night, but
the new day brought no reassuring sign from the inert form. The
stillness was appalling. The other servants were quartered in a distant
part of the mansion and only came when summoned. Again Biggs assured the
physician that he could gain nothing by calling, and another awful night
found him, ashen and distraught, at the bedside. Sometime in the still
watches he swooned and kindly nature patched up his shredded nerves,
before consciousness once more aroused him. But the strain was more than
he could bear. So when the anxious specialist came, unbidden, he found a
shattered old watchman who broke down completely and babbled forth the
whole mysterious tale, concealing nothing but the secret of the tomb.

In a coffin previously made to order, they laid the unembalmed remains
of Judson McMasters in the family mausoleum, and the world which had
felt his masterful presence for so many years paused long enough to lay
a costly tribute on his bier and then went smoothly on its way.

Not so with the faithful Biggs. Ensconced in his master's bedroom, he
nightly tossed in troubled sleep, filled with