"That gale—the gale of life—that's how it went before."
I knew now what he meant. Nancy's face was in her hands and little Tim's eyes were fixed lovingly on me as I began. When I came to the lines:
"Hide me, oh my Saviour hide
Till the storm of life is past"
the dying man suddenly interrupted: "That'll do," he said, his voice barely audible, "that's the bit—that's enough—that, an' the place ye marked."
We were soon all standing by his bed. The struggle was quickly over. Suddenly his face assumed an expression of peace so deep that I thought the harbour had been really won. But his eyes opened wide and both hands went feebly out; Nancy took one in hers, the other clasped by little Tim.
"The anchor holds," he murmured; "Nancy, the anchor holds."
A moment later his wife turned from the bed, her apron to her face, groping her way with bitter outcry towards the adjoining room. Tim followed; and through the open door I could hear the boy's shaking voice:
"Don't cry, mammy; oh, mammy, don't cry so hard. Dad got in, mother—the preacher got him in."
******
I sat up till Gordon got home that night, for I had much to discuss with him. The precious document, with its wizard tidings of mining shares, was still before me as he entered; and I broke out with some word about what Mr. Bradwin had said. But when I looked up and saw the far-off look of peace on Gordon's face, I knew it was sprung from some other source than this.