n broke again into a bitter laugh.

"The end has come of sin, as of trouble. No matter." Then, with an awful
solemnity, he added: "My soul is barren. It is already given over to the
undying worm. I shall die to-morrow at sunrise."

"No man knows the day nor the hour--"

Hugh Ritson repeated, with a fearful emphasis, "I shall die as the sun
rises on Sunday morning."

Parson Christian remained with him the weary night through. The wind
moaned and howled outside. It licked the walls as with the tongues of
serpents. The parson prayed fervently, but Hugh Ritson's voice never
once rose with his. To and fro, to and fro, the dying man continued his
direful walk. At one moment he paused and said with a ghastly smile,
"This dying is an old story. It has been going on every day for six
thousand years, and yet we find it as terrible as ever."

Toward three in the morning he threw open the shutters. The windows were
still dark; it seemed as if the dawn were far away. "It is coming," he
said calmly. "I knew it must come soon. Let us go out to meet it."

With infinite effort he pulled his ulster over his shoulders, put on his
hat, and opened the door.

"Where are you going?" said the parson, and his voice broke.

"To the top of the fell."

"Why there?"

Hugh Ritson turned his heavy eyes upon him. "To see the new day dawn,"
he said, with an awful pathos.

He had already stepped out into the gloom. Parson Christian followed
him. They took the path that led through the moor end to the foot of Cat
Bells. The old man offered his arm, but Hugh Ritson shook his head and
walked one pace ahead. It was a terrible journey. The wind had dropped.
In the air the night and day commingled. The dying man struggled along
with the firm soul of a stricken lion. Step by step and with painful
labor they ascended the bare side of the fell in the gray light of
morning. They reached the top at last.

Below them the moorland lay dark and mute. The mist was around them.
They seemed to stand on an islet of the clouds. In front the day-break
was bursting the confines of the bleak racks of cloud. Then the day came
in its wondrous radiance, and flooded the world in a vast ocean of
light.

On the mountain brow Hugh Ritson resumed his melancholy walk. The old
parson muttered, as if to himself, "Wilt thou break a leaf driven to and
fro? Wilt thou pursue the dry stubble?" Hugh Ritson overheard the words,
and all his manner changed. The stubborn lips sof