Mr. Simmonds was the curate.

“Now?” asked Philip.

“Soon, or else it’ll be too late.”

Philip went to awake Mrs. Foster, but it was later than he thought and she was up already.  He told her to send the gardener with a message, and he went back to his uncle’s room.

“Have you sent for Mr. Simmonds?”

“Yes.”

There was a silence.  Philip sat by the bed-side, and occasionally wiped the sweating forehead.

“Let me hold your hand, Philip,” the old man said at last.

Philip gave him his hand and he clung to it as to life, for comfort in his extremity.  Perhaps he had never really loved anyone in all his days, but now he turned instinctively to a human being.  His hand was wet and cold.  It grasped Philip’s with feeble, despairing energy.  The old man was fighting with the fear of death.  And Philip thought that all must go through that.  Oh, how monstrous it was, and they could believe in a God that allowed his creatures to suffer such a cruel torture!  He had never cared for his uncle, and for two years he had longed every day for his death; but now he could not overcome the compassion that filled his heart.  What a price it was to pay for being other than the beasts!

They remained in silence broken only once by a low inquiry from Mr. Carey.

“Hasn’t he come yet?”

At last the housekeeper came in softly to say that Mr. Simmonds was there.  He carried a bag in which were his surplice and his hood.  Mrs. Foster brought the communion plate.  Mr. Simmonds shook hands silently with Philip, and then with professional gravity went to the sick man’s side.  Philip and the maid went out of the room.

Philip walked round the garden all fresh and dewy in the morning.  The birds were singing gaily.  The sky was blue, but the air, salt-laden, was sweet and cool.  The roses were in full bloom.  The green of the trees, the green of the lawns, was eager and brilliant.  Philip walked, and as he walked he thought of the mystery which was proceeding in that bedroom.  It gave him a peculiar emotion.  Presently Mrs. Foster came out to him and said that his uncle wished to see him.  The curate was putting his things back into the black bag.  The sick man turned his head a little and greeted him with a smile.  Philip was astonished, for there was a change in him, an extraordinary change; his eyes had no longer the terror-stricken look, and the pinching of his face had gone:  he looked happy and serene.

“I’m quite prepared now,” he said, and his voice had a different tone in it.  “When the Lord sees fit to call me I am ready to give my soul into his hands.”

Philip did not speak.  He could see that his uncle was sincere.  It was almost a miracle.  He had taken the body and blood of his Savior, and they had given him strength so that he no longer feared the inevitable passage into the night.  He knew he was going to die:  he was resigned.  He only said one thing more: