Of all the sensations to which the human mind is a prey, there is none
so powerful in its finality, so chilling in its sense of an impending
event as the knowledge that Death--grim, implacable Death--has cast his
shadow on a life that custom and circumstance have rendered familiar.
Whatever the personal feeling may be--whether dismay, despair, or
relief--no man or woman can watch that advancing shadow without a
quailing at the heart, an individual shrinking from the terrible,
natural mystery that we must all face in turn--each for himself and each
alone.

In a gaunt house on the loneliest point where the Scottish coast
overlooks the Irish Sea, John Henderson was watching his uncle die. In
the plain, whitewashed room where the sick man lay, a fire was burning
and a couple of oil-lamps shed an uncertain glow; but outside, the wind
roared inland from the shore, and the rain splashed in furious showers
against the windows of the house. It was a night of tumult and darkness;
but neither the old man who lay waiting for the end nor the young man
who watched that end approaching gave any heed to the turmoil of the
elements. Each was self-engrossed.

Except for an occasional rasping cough, or a slow, indrawn breath, no
sign came from the small iron bedstead on which the dying man lay. His
hard, emaciated face was set in an impenetrable mask; his glazed eyes
were fixed immovably on a distant portion of the ceiling; and his hands
lay clasped upon his breast, covering some object that depended from
his neck.

He had lain thus since the doctor from the neighboring town had braved
the rising storm and ridden over to see him in the fall of the evening;
and no accentuation of the gale that lashed the house, no increase in
the roar of the ocean three hundred yards away, had power to interrupt
his lethargy.

In curious contrast was the expression that marked his nephew's face. An
extraordinary suppressed energy was visible in every line of John
Henderson's body as he sat crouching over the fire; and a look of
irrepressible excitement smoldered in the eyes that gazed into the
glowing coals. He was barely twenty-three years old, but the
self-control that comes from endurance and privation sat unmistakably on
his knitted brows and closed lips. He was neither handsome of feature
nor graceful of figure, yet there was something more striking and
interesting than either grace or beauty in the strong, youthful form
and the strong, intellige