Dorian read:  “’We do not indeed remember our past, we are not aware of our future, but in common with everything else we must have had a past and must be going to have a future.’—­Oliver Lodge.”

Again he read:  “’We must dare to extend the thought of growth and progress and development even up to the height of all that we can realize of the Supreme Being—­In some part of the universe perhaps already the ideal conception has been attained; and the region of such attainment—­the full blaze of self-conscious Deity—­is too bright for mortal eyes, is utterly beyond our highest thoughts.’—­Oliver Lodge.”

Uncle Zed held out his hand and smiled.  “There,” he said in a whisper, “is a hesitating suggestion of the truth which we boldly proclaim.”

“Now you are tired, Uncle Zed,” said Dorian.  “I had best not read more.”

“Just one—­the next one.”

Dorian complied: 

  “’There are more lives yet, there are more worlds waiting,
    For the way climbs up to the eldest sun,
  Where the white ones go to their mystic mating,
     And the holy will is done. 
  I’ll find you there where our love life heightens—­
     Where the door of the wonder again unbars,
  Where the old love lures and the old fire whitens,
     In the stars behind the stars’.”

Uncle Zed lay peacefully on his pillow, a wistful look on his face.  The room became still again, and the clock ticked away the time.  Dorian folded up the papers which he had been told to keep and put them in his pocket.  The rest of the package he returned to the drawer.  He lowered the lamp again.  Then he sat down and watched.  It seemed it would not be long for the end.

“Dorian.”

“Yes, Uncle Zed, can I do anything for you?”

“No”—­barely above a whisper—­“nothing else matters—­you’re a good boy—­God bless you.”

The dying man lay very still.  As Dorian looked at the face of his friend it seemed that the mortal flesh had become waxen white so that the immortal spirit shone unhindered through it.  The young man’s heart was deeply sorrowful, but it was a sanctified sorrow.  Twice before had death come near to him.  He had hardly realized that of his father’s and he was not present when Mildred had passed away; but here he was again with death, and alone.  It seemed strange that he was not terrified, but he was not—­everything seemed so calm, peaceful, and even beautiful in its serene solemnity.

Dorian arose, went softly to the window and looked out.  The wind had quieted, and the snow was falling slowly, steadily in big white flakes, When Dorian again went back to the bedside and looked on the stilled face of his friend, he gave a little start.  He looked again closely, listening, and feeling of the cold hands.  Uncle Zed was dead.

The Greenstreet meeting house was filled to overflowing at the funeral.  Uncle Zed had gone about all his days in the village doing good.  All could tell of some kind deed he had done, with the admonition that it should not be talked about.  He always seemed humiliated when anyone spoke of these things in his hearing; but now, surely, there could be no objection to letting his good deeds shine before men.