This reached from the shore, out over the water, far away, to end in the heavy shadows looming against the horizon like the walls of the City of Death, whose angel keeper was even now unbarring the gates for the call that should bring the soul of Joseph Devereux within their misty portals.
Dwellers by the sea have a belief that the souls of those who are called, go ever with the turning of the tide. It was now only an hour, or less, to that; and Dorothy was waiting with a trembling heart for the ebb of the sea to carry her father away to the world of shadows.
He lay motionless, as though his soul were already departed, save for that same heavy breathing.
There was no change in this. It was as regular in its hoarse panting as the swinging of the pendulum in the clock outside the door,—the old clock that had seen both joy and sorrow passing before it through many generations, and had seemed to look with friendliness upon every eye—blue, black, gray, or brown—uplifted to its great face,—eyes that had long since been closed, some of them not even having time to grow dim with age or be moistened by tears of grief.
"Gone—gone—going," it sighed in Dorothy's ears, until she covered them with her hands to shut out the sound, and with it the moaning of the surf.
"Dot, my little girl!" A faint voice broke the stillness as the heavy breathing was hushed.
She flew to the bedside and knelt there, while she pressed her warm mouth against the nerveless hand, whose chill seemed to strike her very heart. Her father felt the quivering of her lips, and tried to lift his other hand to her head.
She knew this without seeing it, and moving yet closer to him, she laid her face over his heart, her head fitting into the hollow of his arm as she clasped his hand with her small fingers.
"Dot, my baby—oh, my little girl!"
The words came with all his old strength of voice, and she felt that he was weeping.