“Some did,” said Serena, “but only a minority.”
She saw his eyes fix suddenly. His face became transfigured.
“She’s coming up the path,” he said, in an awed whisper. “Catherine is coming.”
Serena followed his rapt gaze and saw her daughter coming towards them in a white gown, her hat hanging by a ribbon in her hand, the sunshine upon her amber hair.
“Catherine,” said the old man, “Catherine, you have come to me at last. You said we should sit here together when I was old. You’ve come at last.”
And he, who for fifty years had not walked a step, without help, raised himself to his full height, and went to meet her with outstretched arms.
They caught him before he fell, and one on each side of him supported him back to the bench.
He sank down upon it, blue to the lips. Serena laid the trembling white head upon her daughter’s breast. The bewildered young girl put her arms gently round him in silence.
John Damer sighed once in supreme content, and then—breathed no more.