The doctor was going deeper and deeper into the valley from which there is no return. Earthly sounds were growing dim to his ears—earthly voices were losing their meaning—earthly sights were fading before his failing eyes. The dew of death was on his forehead.
Mrs. Staunton, whose face was nearly as white, bent down lower and lower until her lips touched his hand. The touch of her lips made him open his eyes. He saw his wife; the look on her face seemed to bring him back to earth again—it was like a sort of return wave, landing him high on the shores of time.
His impulse was to say, "Come with me—let us enter into the rest of the Lord together;" but then he saw George. George had thrown his arm round his mother's waist.
"Let me keep her, father," said the young man. "Don't take her yet, let me keep her."
"Yes, stay with the lad, Mary," said the doctor.
It was a final act of self-renunciation. His eyelids drooped over his dying eyes—he never spoke again.