"He's sinking fast," she said, greeting Harvey with a warmth he had not known before. "He can still speak with us, though—and he's been asking for you."
"Who's with him?" asked Harvey.
"Just Madeline. We sent for Dr. Fletcher—but he's away, attending some meeting of ministers. Mr. Nickle's coming, though—he'll soon be here now."
Harvey stood a minute at the door before he entered David's room. Madeline looked up and smiled; but her father's eyes were turned away, fixed on the distant hills. The gaze of the younger man rested long and lovingly on the pallid face upon the pillow. Never had David looked so grand before. The thin, responsive lips; the care-worn face, compassion and sympathy in every line; the crown of silvery hair, so whitened since Harvey saw it last; the large, far-seeing eyes, homes of the faith and hope that had upborne his life and made it beautiful, out-gazing now beyond the things of time, calm with the last long peace—all these gave to the face that spiritual beauty which is the handiwork of God.
Harvey drew closer to the bed. David slowly turned his head; his eyes met Harvey's, and he held out his hand.
"I knew you'd come," he said gently; we're all together now—all but Geordie."
Harvey's answer was a warmer pressure of the wasted hand.
"The sands is runnin' fast," David said with a faint smile—"the battle'll soon be done. An' I'm pretty tired, Harvey."
Harvey was still standing by the bed, bowed, still holding David's hand. And the dying man could see the tears that were making their way down the quivering cheeks.
"Don't, Harvey," he implored; "this ain't no time for that. Madeline, read that bit again."