"Ah—just so—just so. I—I thank you, Archibald."
Suddenly the rector drew a long breath, and straightened himself, as though he had forgotten something. "It must come to us all, sooner or later," he said gently, "and if we have lived well we need not dread it. Surely you need not, of all the men I have ever known."
"I have always endeavored," said Mr. Denner, in a voice which still trembled a little, "to remember that I was a gentleman."
Dr. Howe opened his lips and shut them again before he spoke. "I—I meant that the trust in God, William, of a Christian man, which is yours, must be your certain support now."
The lawyer looked up, with a faint surprise dawning in his eyes. "Ah—you are very good to say so, I'm sure," he replied courteously.
Dr. Howe moved his hands nervously, clasping and re-clasping them upon the head of his stick. "Yes, William," he said, after a moment's silence, "that trust in God which leads us safely through all the dark places in life will not fail us at the end. The rod and the staff still comfort us."
"Ah—yes," responded Mr. Denner.
The rector gained confidence as he spoke. "And you must have that blessed assurance of the love of God, William," he continued; "your life has been so pure and good. You must see in this visitation not chastisement, but mercy."
Dr. Howe's hand moved slowly back to the big pocket in one of his black coat-tails, and brought out a small, shabby prayer-book.
"You will let me read the prayers for the sick," he continued gently, and without waiting for a reply began to say with more feeling than Dr. Howe often put into the reading of the service,—