‘Surely, doctor, this is a sudden and awful change?’ Walter said to the doctor; but he put up his hand.

‘Hush!’ he said, pointing to the dying man, who essayed through his struggling breath to speak.

‘Pray,’ he said at last; and they looked from one to the other dumbly for a moment.  Then the girl’s sweet voice broke the dreary silence, and she prayed as one who has been long familiar with such words, and who, while praying, believes the answer will be given.  The words of that prayer were never forgotten by the two young men who heard them; they seemed to bring heaven very near to that humble spot of earth.

‘For Christ’s sake.’

Abel Graham repeated these words after her in a painful whisper, and his struggling ceased.

‘It is all over,’ said the doctor reverently.  And it was.  Ay, all over, so far as this world was concerned, with Abel Graham.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIV.

THOSE LEFT BEHIND.

That was a sad night for Gladys Graham and for Walter.  Feeling that she required the help and presence of a woman, Walter ran up for the kind-hearted Mrs. Macintyre, whom Gladys had occasionally seen and spoken with since she took up her abode in Colquhoun Street.  It is among the very poor we find the rarest instances of disinterested and sympathetic kindness—­deeds of true neighbourliness, performed without thought or expectation of reward.  Mrs. Macintyre required no second bidding.  In five minutes she was with the stricken girl, ready, in her rough way, to do all that was necessary, and to take the burden off the young shoulders so early inured to care.  When their work was done, and Abel Graham lay placidly upon the pure linen of his last bed, Mrs. Macintyre suggested that Gladys should go home with her for the night.

‘It’s no’ for ye bidin’ here yersel’, my doo,’ she said, with homely but sincere sympathy.  ‘My place is sma’, but it’s clean, an’ ye’re welcome to it.’

Gladys shook her head.

’I don’t mind staying here, I assure you.  I have seen death before.  It is not dreadful to me,’ she said, glancing at the calm, reposeful face of her uncle, and being most tenderly struck by the resemblance to her own father.  Death is always kind, and will give us, when we least expect it, some sudden compensation for what he takes from us.  That faint resemblance composed Gladys, and gave her yet more loving thoughts of the old man.  He had been kind when, in his own rugged way, the first harshness of his bearing towards her had swiftly been mellowed by her own sweet, subtle influence.  We must not too harshly blame Abel Graham; his environment had been of a kind to foster the least beautiful attributes of his nature.

The only being Gladys could think of to help her with the other arrangements was Mr. Fordyce.  She seemed to turn naturally to him in her time of need.  A message sent to St. Vincent Street in the morning brought him speedily, and he greeted her with a mixture of fatherly compassion and sympathy which broke her down.