“Tendit ad astra.”
It was one of those quick replies which any girl who knew a few Latin phrases might easily make. But it struck the ears of the man whose strength was far spent. He raised his hands a little, and brought them together with a strangely devout gesture.
“To the stars,” he said in a whisper, and his eyes looked upwards.
Katharine rested her chin upon her hand, leaning forwards and watching him. An expression passed over his face which she had never seen, though she had read of the mysterious brightness which sometimes illuminates the features of dying persons. She thought it must be that, and she was suddenly afraid, yet fascinated. But she was mistaken. It was only a gleam of hope. Words can mean so much more than the things they name.
And a dream-like interpretation of the two Latin phrases suggested itself to her. It was as though, looking at the venerable and just man who was departing, she had asked of him, ‘Sir, whither goest thou?’ And as though a voice had answered her, ‘Starwards’—and as though her own eyes might be those stars—the stars of youth and life—from which he had come long ago and to which he was even now returning, to take new childish strength and to live again through the years. Then he spoke, and the dream vanished.
“I believe in Something,” he said. “Call it God, child, and let me pray to It, and die in peace.”
CHAPTER III.
Katharine said nothing, not knowing what to say. During what seemed to her a long time, old Lauderdale lay quite still. Then he seemed to rouse himself, and as he turned his head he coughed painfully.
“I want you to know how I’ve left the money,” he said abruptly, when he had recovered his breath.
“Do you think I ought to know?” asked Katharine, in some surprise.