"All very well said,—but now suppose you were a wealthy man, what would you do with your money?" asked Helmsley.
Angus smiled.
"I don't know, David!—I've never realised the position yet. But I should try to serve others more than to serve myself."
The conversation ceased then, for Helmsley looked pale and exhausted. He had been on the seashore for the greater part of the afternoon, and it was now sunset. Yet he was very unwilling to return home, and it was only by gentle and oft-repeated persuasion that he at last agreed to leave his well-loved haunt, leaning as usual on Mary's arm, with Angus walking on the other side. Once or twice as he slowly ascended the village street he paused, and looked back at the tranquil loveliness of ocean, glimmering as with millions of rubies in the red glow of the sinking sun.
"'And there shall be no more sea!'" he quoted, dreamily—"I should be sorry if that were true! One would miss the beautiful sea!—even in heaven!"
He walked very feebly, and Mary exchanged one or two anxious glances with Angus. But on reaching the cottage again, his spirits revived. Seated in his accustomed chair, he smiled as the little dog, Charlie, jumped on his knee, and peered with a comically affectionate gravity into his face.
"Asking me how I am, aren't you, Charlie!" he said, cheerfully—"I'm all right, wee man!—all right!"
Apparently Charlie was not quite sure about it, for he declined to be removed from the position he had chosen, and snuggling close down on his master's lap, curled himself up in a silky ball and went to sleep, now and then opening a soft dark eye to show that his slumbers were not so profound as they seemed.
That evening when Angus had gone, after saying a prolonged good-night to Mary in the little scented garden under the lovely radiance of an almost full moon, Helmsley called her to his side.
"Mary!"