Again Tom could find no words—what could he say, how could he tell the master that a few hours before the glance of a young maid’s eye and the trill of her glad young voice and the touch of her soft white hand had been of more moving eloquence than a guardian’s pleading, and that, as he pushed over the hills that day through depth of snow and stress of storm to the sickbed side, revolving many things in his awakened mind, he had made a great resolve and vowed a deep and binding vow.
“There remains but this,” continued Mr. Black. “You have seen this locket before. It was your mother’s. The time has come when I may place it where it belongs. You know its story. Wear it ever, and may God in His own good time raise the veil and grant light where now is darkness and certainly where all is fruitless conjecture.”
Tom took the locket, pressed it to his quivering lips and hid it in his bosom. “Lucy shall twine it about my neck,” he said, “and I will wear it ever.”
“Send for Moll now. I must lie down. You won’t forget Moll, when I am gone. She is a good soul, and has tended me well.”
The old man was assisted to his bed, and sank exhausted on the pillow. There was silence in the darkling chamber, save for the heavy breathing of the fast failing man.
“Read me the twenty-first Psalm,” he said, presently.
But Tom’s voice failed him, and broke as he read:
“‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.’”
And Tom kneeled by the bedside, and hid his face in the coverlet, nor restrained his tears.
And the light trembling hand of him who had so loved him rested on the bowed head, and the feeble voice was raised in prayer and benediction.