But he clung
to it now, clung to it desperately. As a drowning man.
He put his hand over his eyes, his pain was forgotten:
Other lights are paling--which for long years we have
rejoiced to see...we would not mourn them for we go
to Thee!
Yes it was all right; he was ready now. He had come of
a race of men who feared not death in whatever form it
came.
Bring us to our resting beds at night--weary and
content and undishonoured--and grant us in the end
the gift of sleep.
He repeated the prayer to himself slowly. That was it,
weary and content, and undishonoured.
"Pearl," he said, reaching out his burning hand until it
rested on hers, "all my letters are there in that black
portmanteau, and the key is in my pocket-book. I have a
fancy that I would like no eye but yours to see them--
until I am quite well again."
She nodded.
"And if you...should have need...to write to Thursa, tell
her I had loving hands around me...at the last."
Pearl gently stroked his hand.
"And to my father write that I knew no fear"--his voice
grew steadier--"and passed out of life glad to have been
a brave man's son, and borne even for a few years a godly
father's name."
"I will write it, Arthur," she said.
"And to my mother, Pearl" his voice wavered and broke--"my
mother...for I was her youngest child...tell her she was
my last...and tenderest thought."
Pearl pressed his hand tenderly against her weather-beaten
little cheek, for it was Danny now, grown a man but Danny
still, who lay before her, fighting for his life; and at
the thought her tears fell fast.
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