"That you were that ridiculous American poet."
"Bring me the glass, my child," said Hopkins, gravely. "I—I'd just like to see my face in the mirror."
The glass was brought and Hopkins looked into it. The face of Barncastle in very truth gazed back at him from its silver depths.
"Ah!" he said. "I have changed; have I not?"
"Yes, indeed," said the Lady of Burningford. "But really I think your illness has done you good, for I do believe you look ten years younger."
"It is well," said the new Barncastle, with a sigh of resignation. "I have worked too hard. I shall now retire from public life and devote my remaining years to—to the accomplishment of my one great ambition."
"And what is that?" asked his daughter.
"To becoming a leader in the busy world of leisure, my child," said Toppleton, falling back to his pillow once more, and again losing consciousness in sleep.
This time fortunately the sleep was that of one who had fought a good fight, had lost, but whose conscience was clear; and to whom, after many days, had been restored a sound mind in a body sound enough to last through many years of unremitting rest.