"There is a little money. I have been a successful fisherman. I might have left it to my good friends the Tibbetts, but Cap'n Ben is not a poor man, and their wants are few. Good little Phosie, if I left it to her it might make gossip—besides now there is my own flesh and blood. So it must go to Gwen and the boy. Then they can marry and have enough. If this had not happened I might have found another way, but this is best, and I am content—more than content to die here where Luther Williams lived." He paused and motioned to the glass standing near. Miss Elliott gave him the medicine and he went on. "It may seem best to say that I discovered her to be the nearest relative for whom I cared at all. You can verify that, if necessary, and you can say that for family reasons I did not correspond with any of my distant kin. I think there will be no trouble. My lawyer in Portland will make everything right." He closed his eyes as if having finished, but he opened them presently. "You forgive me, Camilla?"
"Forgive you, Lew? It is I who should ask forgiveness for my people, for Lillian, for my father."
"No, no, that is all over. I have not a bitter thought against anyone. I have not been unhappy here. It has been peaceful, and at last—at last, Camilla, you brought her. Think of that! My little girl. I never dreamed of, or hoped for such happiness as I have had this summer past. And she loves her Daddy Lu. God bless the darling child. Kenneth is a good lad. I have taken pains to study him well. He will make her happy. Thank you for bringing her to me, Camilla." His voice had sunk into a whisper, and the last words were spoken with effort. His eyes closed again, and seeing that he made no further attempt to speak, Miss Elliott stole softly from the room to summon the others.
The autumn afternoon was closing. Royal colors blazed in the sunset sky. The wind had died down, and only a gentle plash of waves was heard. The bell-buoy, which all day long had sent forth its melancholy note at short intervals, but once in a while pealed faintly now.
The doctor put his finger on the patient's pulse. "He is sinking fast," he said in a low tone to Cap'n Ben. "He cannot last long."
Luther Williams raised his drooping lids and let his gaze rest on Gwen as he whispered a few words. She leaned over to hear. "Would you mind kissing me good-by," she heard. She did not hesitate to respond and he sighed contentedly. After a while he spoke again. "Phosie, where's Phosie?" His hand groped for the Bible. "I want you to have it. You have been good to me, Phosie, and sometimes—" The voice died away.
Miss Phosie knelt by the bed, clasping the Bible. The wandering hand found her free one presently and held it. So he drifted peacefully into a safe harbor just as Halfway Light sent its far-reaching beams over the waters.
It was a solemn procession which moved up the cove on the day that Luther Williams was laid away in the quiet burying-ground. Not a boat but went out to meet that one which brought him back to the spot where he had lived so long and so well. As Cap'n Ben's dory sailed ahead bearing its honored and beloved burden, each craft fell into line, and all moved slowly, slowly toward the island, the dories going first, the little row-boats following after. Into the house that had been home to him for so long, they bore Luther Williams. Not a window-plant anywhere about but was robbed of bud and blossom to be carried to Cap'n Ben's as a last offering to the man whom all his friends honored. Sorrowful as Kenneth felt he could but realize the picturesqueness of this fisherman's funeral cortege on the water, and it was scarcely less so on shore when everyone, on foot, followed the sturdy pall-bearers down the long road to the small enclosure, where under the October sky, and within sound of the breakers rested the quiet sleepers who had made their last port.
"'So shall they come to the haven where they would be,'" murmured Miss Elliott as they walked away. "How much better to leave one that you love, there in that peaceful place than to think of him still buffetting with the storms of life, with the waves of trouble that might wreck him utterly. He is spared much, dear child." She spoke to Gwen who was sobbing softly, while the tears welled constantly to Miss Elliott's own eyes.
"I know all that," replied the girl, "but when I think of him only a few days ago, so alive and well, so full of our plans, so helpful and kind to everyone, I cannot feel reconciled to his going."