He paused to catch his breath, which was coming painfully now, and reached out his bony hand to seek Stephen’s.  “I was harsh with you at first, my son,” he went on.  “I wished to try you.  And when I had tried you I wished your mind to open, to keep pace with the growth of this nation.  I sent you to see Abraham Lincoln that you might be born again —­in the West.  You were born again.  I saw it when you came back—­I saw it in your face.  O God,” he cried, with sudden eloquence.  “I would that his hands—­Abraham Lincoln’s hands—­might be laid upon all who complain and cavil and criticise, and think of the little things in life:  I would that his spirit might possess their spirit!”

He stopped again.  They marvelled and were awed, for never in all his days had such speech broken from this man.  “Good-by, Stephen,” he said, when they thought he was not to speak again.  “Hold the image of Abraham Lincoln in front of you.  Never forget him.  You—­you are a man after his own heart—­and—­and mine.”

The last word was scarcely audible.  They started for ward, for his eyes were closed.  But presently he stirred again, and opened them.

“Brinsmade,” he said, “Brinsmade, take care of my orphan girls.  Send Shadrach here.”

The negro came forth, shuffling and sobbing, from the doorway.

“You ain’t gwine away, Marse Judge?”

“Yes, Shadrach, good-by.  You have served me well, I have left you provided for.”

Shadrach kissed the hand of whose secret charity he knew so much.  Then the Judge withdrew it, and motioned to him to rise.  He called his oldest friend by name.  And Colonel Carvel came from the corner where he had been listening, with his face drawn.

“Good-by, Comyn.  You were my friend when there was none other.  You were true to me when the hand of every man was against me.  You—­you have risked your life to come to me here, May God spare it for Virginia.”

At the sound of her name, the girl started.  She came and bent over him.  And when she kissed him on the forehead, he trembled.

“Uncle Silas!” she faltered.

Weakly he reached up and put his hands on her shoulders.  He whispered in her ear.  The tears came and lay wet upon her lashes as she undid the button at his throat.

There, on a piece of cotton twine, hung a little key, She took it off, but still his hands held her.

“I have saved it for you, my dear,” he said.  “God bless you—­” why did his eyes seek Stephen’s?—­“and make your life happy.  Virginia—­will you play my hymn—­once more—­once more?”

They lifted the night lamp from the piano, and the medicine.  It was Stephen who stripped it of the black cloth it had worn, who stood by Virginia ready to lift the lid when she had turned the lock.  The girl’s exaltation gave a trembling touch divine to the well-remembered chords, and those who heard were lifted, lifted far above and beyond the power of earthly spell.