"'Twas not mere human woman who sat there," they said afterwards in the stables among their fellows. "'Twas somewhat more. Had such a will been in an evil thing a man's hair would have risen on his skull at the seeing of it."

"Go now," she said to them, "and send women to set the place in order."

She had seen delirium and death enough in the doings of her deeds of mercy, to know that his strength had gone and death was coming. His bed and room were made orderly, and at last he lay in clean linen, with all made straight. Soon his eyes seemed to sink into his head and stare from hollows, and his skin grew grey, but ever he stared only at his daughter's face.

"Clo," he said at last, "stay by me! Clo, go not away!"

"I shall not go," she answered.

She drew a seat close to his bed and took his hand. It lay knotted and gnarled and swollen-veined upon her smooth palm, and with her other hand she stroked it. His breath came weak and quick, and fear grew in his eyes.

"What is it, Clo?" he said. "What is't?"

"'Tis weakness," replied she, soothing him. "Soon you will sleep."

"Ay," he said, with a breath like a sob. "'Tis over."

His big body seemed to collapse, he shrank so in the bed-clothes.

"What day o' the year is it?" he asked.

"The tenth of August," was her answer.

"Sixty-nine years from this day was I born," he said, "and now 'tis done."

"Nay," said she—"nay—God grant—"

"Ay," he said, "done. Would there were nine and sixty more. What a man I was at twenty. I want not to die, Clo. I want to live—to live—live, and be young," gulping, "with strong muscle and moist flesh. Sixty-nine years—and they are gone!"

He clung to her hand, and stared at her with awful eyes. Through all his life he had been but a great, strong, human carcass; and he was now but the same carcass worn out, and at death's door. Of not one human thing but of himself had he ever thought, not one creature but himself had he ever loved—and now he lay at the end, harking back only to the wicked years gone by.

"None can bring them back," he shuddered. "Not even thou, Clo, who art so strong. None—none! Canst pray, Clo?" with the gasp of a craven.

"Not as chaplains do," she answered. "I believe not in a God who clamours but for praise."

"What dost believe in, then?"

"In One who will do justice, and demands that it shall be done to each thing He has made, by each who bears His image—ay, and mercy too—but justice always, for justice is mercy's highest self."