Bending over him his brother caught the words, “Night no more.” The great day was dawning for him. With a long, lingering look upon the mountains, he turned his eyes away from the window and let them rest upon his brother's face. “It is near now, Dick—I think—and it's not hard at all. I'd like to sleep out there—under the pines—but I think mother—would like—to have me near.”
“Yes, Barney, my boy. We'll take you home to mother.” Dick's voice was steady and clear.
“Margaret,” said Barney. She came and knelt where he could see her. An odd little smile played over his face. “I wasn't worth it, Margaret—but I thank you—I like to think of it now—I would like you—to kiss me.” She kissed him on the lips once, twice, for a single moment her superb courage faltering as she whispered in his ear, “Barney, my love! my love!”
Again he smiled up at her. “Margaret,” he said, “take care—of Dick—for me.”
“Yes, Barney, I will.” The brave blue eyes and the clear, sweet voice carried full conviction to his mind.
“I know you will,” he said with a sigh of content. For a long time he lay still, his eyes closed, his breathing growing more rapid. Suddenly he opened his eyes, turned himself toward his brother. “Dick, my boy,” he cried, in a clear, strong voice, “my brother—my brother.” He lifted up both his arms and wound them round Dick's neck, drew a deep breath, then another. They waited anxiously. Then one more. Again they waited, tense and breathless, but the eternal silence had fallen.
“He's gone, Margaret!” cried Dick, in a voice of piteous surprise, lifting up a white appealing face to her. “He's gone! Oh! he has left us!”
She came quickly round to him and knelt at his side. “We have only each other now, Dick,” she said, and took him in her arms. And so, in the strength of the great love that bound them to the dead, they found courage to turn again and live.
Three days later, when the road was clear again, they bore him through the Pass, the General Manager placing his private car at their disposal. It was no poor funeral. It was rather the triumphal procession of a king. At every station stood a group of men, silent and sorrow-stricken. It was their friend who was being carried past. At Bull Crossing a longer stay was made. The station house and platform and the street behind were blocked with men who had gathered in from the lumber camps and from down the line. One of their number came up, bearing a large wreath of the costliest flowers brought from the far south, and laid it on the bier. The messenger stood there a moment and then said, hesitatingly, “The men would like to see him again, if you think best.”
“Tell them to come,” replied Dick, quickly, proceeding to uncover the face. For almost an hour they filed past, solemn, silent for the most part, but many weeping as only strong men can weep. But as they looked upon the strong dead face, its serene dignity, its proud look of triumph subdued their sobbing, and they passed out awed and somewhat comforted. The look on that dead face forbade pity. They might grieve for the loss of their friend, but to him the best had come.