“I have been looking for this news all day:  I fear me, Steve, that the squire has come to ‘the passing.’  Last night I saw your grandfather.”

“Dreamed of him?”

“Well, then, call it a dream.  I saw your grandfather.  He was in this room; he was sorting the papers he left; and, as I watched his hands, he lifted his head and looked at me.  I have got my orders, I feel that.  But wait not now, I will follow you anon.”

In the “Seat” there was a distinct feeling of consummating calamity.  The servants had come to a state of mind in which the expectation was rather a relief.  They were only afraid the squire might rally again.  In Mrs. Sandal’s heart there was that resentful resignation which says to sorrow, “Do thy worst.  I am no longer able to resist, or even to plead.”  Charlotte only clung to her dream of hope, and refused to be wakened from it.  She was sure her father had been worse many a time.  She was almost cross at Ducie’s unusual visit.

About four o’clock Steve had a long interview with the squire.  Charlotte walked restlessly to and fro in the corridor; she heard Steve’s voice, strong and kind and solemn, and she divined what promises he was making to the dying man for herself and for her mother.  But even her love did not anticipate their parting words,—­

“Farewell, Stephen.  Yet one word more.  If Harry should come back—­what of Harry?  Eh?  What?”

“I will stand by him.  I will put my hand in his hand, and my foot with his foot.  They that wrong Harry will wrong me, they that shame Harry will shame me.  I will never call him less than a brother, as God hears me speak.”

A light “that never was on sea or sky” shone in Sandal’s fast dimming eyes, and irradiated his set gray countenance.  “Stephen, tell him at death’s door I turned back to forgive him—­to bless him.  I stretch—­out—­my hand—­to—­him.”

At this moment Charlotte opened the door softly, and waved Stephen towards her.  “Your mother is come, and she says she must see the squire.”  And then, before Stephen could answer, Ducie gently put them both aside.  “Wait in the corridor, my children,” she said:  “none but God and Sandal must hear my farewell.”  With the words, she closed the door, and went to the dying man.  He appeared to be unconscious; but she took his hand, stroked it kindly, and bending down whispered, “William, William Sandal!  Do you know me?”

“Surely it is Ducie.  It is growing dark.  We must go home, Ducie.  Eh?  What?”

“William, try and understand what I say.  You will go the happier to heaven for my words.”  And, as they grew slowly into the squire’s apprehension, a look of amazement, of gratitude, of intense satisfaction, transfigured the clay for the last time.  It seemed as if the departing soul stood still to listen.  He was perfectly quiet until she ceased speaking; then, in a strange, unearthly tone, he uttered one word, “Happy.”  It was the last word that ever parted his lips.  Between shores he lingered until the next daybreak, and then the loving watchers saw that the pallid wintry light fell on the dead.  How peaceful was the large, worn face!  How tranquil!  How distant from them!  How grandly, how terribly indifferent!  To Squire William Sandal, all the noisy, sorrowful controversies of earth had grown suddenly silent.