"No, deary, I thinks not," he would say, when Ailie wanted him to look forward as they were doing. "We'll wait an' see, but somehow I've a thought that 'tain't that sort o' country I'll be going to."
And gradually the truth broke upon them all, that it was even so. Job Kippis, the brave old soldier, who had battled so cheerily through his long troubled life, was going to another and farther Land.
They did not think the change so near as it was. But one rough February evening, a message came to Leveson Therlock, home on a brief visit,—a message sent by Ailie.
"Grandfather was worse."
Nothing but those three words, implying the need of Leveson's presence,—and he went.
Job lay there quietly, in his narrow garret, with brown hands clasped across his chest, as often of late, and a look of wondrous rest upon his furrowed brow, while Ailie crouched, trembling, beside the bed. He glanced up cheerily as Leveson came in.
"It's a stormy night," he said. "I scarce thought I'd see you, sir, but Ailie she said you was at home, an' she knowed you'd wish we should send."
"Ailie was right," said Leveson. "It must have been a storm indeed that could have kept me back if you needed me. How are you to-night?"
He looked downwards, smiling still, with a little motion of his hand towards the floor. "Waters of Jordan washin' all round me, sir, but I ain't out o' my depth yet."
"And you will not be," said Leveson, "so long as you lean on your Guide. Don't look at the water like Peter, but look to His Face."