rate, for the
present.

After this my father grew weaker rapidly, and although he suffered but
little pain we knew that his life was fast ebbing away.

What I felt as I sat and watched I cannot describe, for he desired me
to remain to the end. Nor will I try and write about the farewell
between him and Wilfred, and my sisters, and Ruth. Such scenes are not
to be written about; they cannot be. Even now that solemn hour comes
back to me, and I try to realise, as I tried to realise then, that my
father's spirit went to be with God.

Oh, this mystery of death! It surrounds us all, and yet we understand
it not. There we stood talking with him, who was soon to be no more
with us--and we knew it. What would become of his spirit? We did not
know, we could only hope. Would father become nothing, or would he
live on? I could not realise the fact of his death then. I can barely
do so now. For one hour my father talked to us. His brain thought,
his tongue spoke, his soul felt, the next--he was gone; and yet he was
not gone. He lay there, the father I had embraced, and yet he did not
lie there. The body could not love, and my father _did_ love me.

After we had sat some time in silence, Mr. Polperrow spoke to my
father. He asked him if he felt himself safe for the next world; but
father answered him not.

"You have always been a good churchman," continued Mr. Polperrow, "and
have always been regular in partaking of the Holy Communion."

My father smiled, I thought sadly, and then he beckoned to me again.
He looked as though he had something to tell me--at least, I thought
so--and I put my ear close to his mouth. He was now very weak, and
spoke with difficulty; but I thought I caught the words:

"Be careful."

I thought he referred to the legend about the curse and assured him
that I would be careful, but he did not seem satisfied.

"Beware of----" he said, and seemed to hesitate before pronouncing the
word that would make the sentence complete. He looked round the room
until his eyes rested on the place where my mother and Wilfred stood,
then he sighed deeply.

"I will beware of everything wrong," I said, in trying to lead his mind
from difficulty or doubt. "You are sure everything is well with you.
No vestige of the curse remains with you."

He looked at me strangely, then a smile lit up his face and a new light
beamed from his eyes.

"There is no curse," he said. "God is love."

These were his