"That is what the doctor said," answered the rector; "told me he might want to settle his affairs. But bless my soul, what affairs can Denner have? He made his will fifteen years ago, and left all he had to Sarah Denner's boy. I don't see what he has to do."
"But, uncle," Helen said, "mightn't he have some friends or relatives to whom he would want to send a message,—or perhaps see? People you never heard of?"
"Oh, no, no," responded Dr. Howe. "I've known William Denner, man and boy, these sixty years. He hasn't any friends I don't know about; he could not conceal anything, you know; he is as simple and straightforward as a child. No; Willie Denner'll have his money,—there's not too much of it,—and that's all there is to consider."
"But it is not only money," Helen went on slowly: "hasn't he a right to know of eternity? Not just go out into it blindly?"
"Perhaps so,—perhaps so," the rector admitted, hiding his evident emotion with a flourish of his big white silk handkerchief. "You see," he continued, steadying his cane between his knees, while he took off his glasses and began to polish them, "the doctor wants me to tell him, Helen."
"I suppose so," she said sympathetically.
"And I suppose I must," the rector went on, "but it is the hardest task he could set me. I—I don't know how to approach it."
"It must be very hard."
"Of course it seems natural to the doctor that I should be the one to tell him. I'm his pastor, and he's a member of my church—Stay! is he?" Dr. Howe thrust out his lower lip and wrinkled his forehead, as he thought. "Yes, oh yes, I remember. We were confirmed at the same time, when we were boys,—old Bishop White's last confirmation. But he hasn't been at communion since my day."
"Why do you think that is, uncle Archie?" Helen asked.