So he “let her depart with this blessing.” Let her depart—to walk the thorny path of which he had reached the end, to climb the painful steeps of which he stood at the summit, to labour along the weary road which he would tread no more. Let her depart! The God who had fed him had manna in store for her,—the Angel who had redeemed him was strong, enough, and tender enough, to carry this lamb in His bosom.
Barbara noted that his step was slower even than had been usual with him of late. It struck her, too, that his hair was whiter than she had ever noticed it before.
“Be you aweary this even, Master?”
“Something, good maid,” he answered with a smile. “Even as a traveller may well be that hath but another furlong of his journey.”
Another furlong! Was it more than another step? Barbara went upstairs with him, to relieve him of the light burden of the candle.
“Good night, Master! Metrusteth your sleep shall give you good refreshing.”
“Good night, my maid,” said he. “I wish thee the like. There shall be good rest up yonder.”
Her eyes filled with tears as she turned away. Was it selfish that her wish was half a prayer,—that he might be kept a little longer from that rest?
She waited longer than usual before she tapped at his door the next morning. It was seven o’clock—a very late hour for rising in the sixteenth century—when, receiving no answer, Barbara went softly into the room and unfastened the shutters as quietly as she could. No need for the care and the silence! There was good rest up yonder.
The shutters were drawn back, and the April sunlight streamed brightly in upon a still, dead face.