uder; he gave the word of command, spoke Hindustanee as if
to his men. Then he spoke words in French rapidly, seizing a hand that
was near him and crying, "Toujours, toujours!" But it was Ethel's hand
which he took.

Ethel and Clive and the nurse were in the room with him; the latter came
to us, who were sitting in the adjoining apartment; Madame de Florac was
there, with my wife and Bayham.

At the look in the woman's countenance Madame de Florac started up. "He
is very bad, he wanders a great deal," the nurse whispered. The French
lady fell instantly on her knees, and remained rigid in prayer.

Some time afterwards Ethel came in with a scared face to our pale group.
"He is calling for you again, dear lady," she said, going up to Madame
de Florac, who was still kneeling; "and just now he said he wanted
Pendennis to take care of his boy. He will not know you." She hid her
tears as she spoke.

She went into the room, where Clive was at the bed's foot; the old man
within it talked on rapidly for a while: then again he would sigh and be
still: once more I heard him say hurriedly, "Take care of him while I'm
in India;" and then with a heart-rending voice he called out, "Leonore,
Leonore!" She was kneeling by his side now. The patient's voice sank
into faint murmurs; only a moan now and then announced that he was not
asleep.

At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began to toll, and Thomas
Newcome's hands outside the bed feebly beat a time. And just as the last
bell struck, a peculiar sweet smile shone over his face, and he lifted
up his head a little, and quickly said, "Adsum!" and fell back. It was
the word we used at school, when names were called; and lo, he, whose
heart was as that of a little child, had answered to his name, and stood
in the presence of The Master.

* * * * * *

Two years ago, walking with my children in some pleasant fields, near
to Berne in Switzerland, I strayed from them into a little wood; and,
coming out of it presently, told them how the story had been revealed
to me somehow, which for three-and-twenty months the reader has been
pleased to follow. As I write the last line with a rather sad heart,
Pendennis and Laura, and Ethel and Clive, fade away into Fable-land. I
hardly know whether they are not true: whether they do not live near us
somewhere. They were alive, and I heard their voices, but five minutes
since was touched by their grief. And have we par