"What's the matter, Simmons?—nothing gone wrong, I hope."
"I've got to leave within ten minutes," Harvey answered, stooping to arrange some scattered papers on his desk. "I'll just have time to catch the Glenallen train. The dearest friend I have in the world is dying, they tell me—and he wants me."
"Who?" asked Mr. Crothers, rising from his seat.
"Mr. Borland—David Borland. You've often heard me speak of him."
Mr. Crothers' countenance fell. "I should think I have; I almost feel as if I knew him, you've given me so much of his philosophy. I always hoped I might meet him—what's like the trouble?"
"Heart," said Harvey, unable to say more.
"That was where his homely philosophy came from, I should say," ventured Mr. Crothers; "it's the best brand too."
Harvey nodded. A few minutes later he was gone.
The evening sun was prodigal of its beauty. And once, when Harvey lifted up his eyes to look, he could see the flashing windows of David's old-time residence, its stately outlines showing clear against the sombre trees behind. But the little house on which his eyes were fastened now—where a great soul was preparing for its flight—seemed far the grander of the two. For it was clothed with the majesty of things invisible and the outlook from its humbler windows was to the Eternal.
He entered without knocking; and Mrs. Borland was the first to meet him.