"I haven't been half as good as I ought to--not half as good as you, Tom."
"O Jim! you should not say that."
"He is right," whispered Mrs. Pitcairn, standing at the foot of the bed, beside her husband; "he will be with us but a few minutes longer. How do you feel," she asked gently, "now that you must soon go, Jim?"
"I am sorry to leave you and Tom, but it's all right. I see mother and Maggie and father," he replied, looking toward the ceiling; "they are bending over me, they are waiting to take my hand; I am glad to be with them--Tom, kiss me good-by."
With the tears blinding his eyes, and holding the hot hand within his own warm pressure, Tom Gordon pressed his lips on those of Jim Travers, and, as he held them there, the spirit of the poor orphan wanderer took its flight.
The door gently opened a minute later and the physician stepped inside. One glance told him the truth.
"I knew it was coming when I looked at him this morning," he remarked, in a soft, sympathetic voice. "Nothing could save him. How do you all feel?"
It seemed cruel to ask the question of the three all standing in the presence of death; but it was professional and it was wise, for, by pressing it, he withdrew their thoughts from the overwhelming sorrow that was crushing them.
Tom Gordon had flung himself on the bed with uncontrollable sorrow. One arm lay over the breast and partly round the neck of the body, which breathed no longer, and whose face was lit up by a beatific smile; for Jim Travers was with mother and Maggie and father, and they should go out no more forever.