When Helen rose to retire, which was not till midnight—­for the earl seemed unwilling to let her go, saying it was so long since they had had a quiet talk together—­he asked her earnestly if she were content about her son.

“Perfectly content.  Not merely content, but happy—­happier than I once thought it possible to be in this world.  And it is you who have done it all—­you who have made my boy what he is.  But he will reward you—­I know he will.  Henceforward he will be as much your son as mine.”

“I hope so.  And now good-night, my dear.”

“Good-night—­God bless you.”

Mrs. Bruce knelt down beside the chair, and touched with her lips the poor, useless hands.

“Helen,” said the earl as she rose, “kiss me—­just once—­as I remember your doing when I was a boy—­a poor, lonely, miserable boy.”

She kissed him very tenderly, then went away and left him sitting there in his little chair, opposite the fire, alone in the large, splendid, empty room.

* * * * *

Helen Bruce could not sleep that night.  Either the day’s excitement had been too much for her, or she was disturbed by the wild winds that went shrieking round the Castle, reminding her over and over again of what the earl had just said concerning them.  There came into her mind an uneasy feeling about her father, whom for so many years she had never left a night alone; but it was useless regretting this now.  At last, toward morning, the storm gradually lulled.  She rose, and looked out of her window on the loch, which glittered in moonlight like a sea of glass.  It reminded her, with an involuntary fancy, of the sea “clear as glass, like unto crystal,” spoken of in the fourth chapter of the Apocalypse as being “before the Throne.”  She stood looking at it for a minute or so, then went back to her bed and slept peacefully till daylight.

She was dressing herself, full of quiet and happy thoughts, admiring the rosy winter sunrise, and planning all she meant to do that day, when she was startled by Mrs. Campbell, who came suddenly into the room with a face as white and rigid as marble.

“He’s awa’,” she said, or rather whispered.

“Who’s is away?” shrieked Helen, thinking at once of her father.

“Whisht!” said the old nurse, catching hold of Mrs. Bruce as she was rushing from the room, and speaking beneath her breath; “wisht!  My lord’s deid; but we’ll no greet; I canna greet.  He’s gane awa’ hame.”

No, it was not the old man who was called.  Mr. Cardross lived several years after then—­lived to be nearly ninety.  It was the far younger life—­young, and yet how old in suffering!—­which had thus suddenly and unexpectedly come to an end.

The earl was found dead in his bed, in his customary attitude of repose, just as Malcolm always placed him, and left him till the morning.  His eyes were wide open, so that he could not have died in his sleep.  But how, at what hour, or in what manner he had died—­whether the summons had been slow or sudden, whether he had tried to call assistance and failed, or whether, calling no one and troubling no one, his fearless soul had passed, and chosen to pass thus solitary unto its God, none ever knew or ever could know, and it was all the same now.