David feebly raised his hands till one touched each bended head. "You'll sing that hymn—that river hymn—often, together—won't you; in your—own home," drawing the bowed heads closer down—"in your happy home?" he faltered.
For a moment neither moved nor spoke. Then, in strong and passionate silence, Harvey slowly lifted his face till his eyes spoke their great vow to the dying man; and, unashamed, he placed his arm gently, resolutely, about the maiden's bended form, holding her close with a fondness that kindled all his face with light. But Madeline's was hidden, her head still bended low.
David's face was wonderful in its glow of love and gladness. Suddenly his gaze went out beyond the plighted pair.
"Geordie!" he said, the name breathed out in tenderness as his misty eyes saw the well-loved form coming slowly through the door.
The aged man came over, leaning heavily on his staff, his face suffused with a gentleness that flowed from his very heart. He bended low above his dying friend, dumbly groping for his hand. He still leaned heavily on his staff, for his outgoing pilgrimage, too, was close at hand. And the two men looked long without a word; the memories of happy years passed from soul to soul; in silence their eyes still rested on each other, but the troth of many years was plighted once again as they stood at the parting of the ways. And both knew the promise was to all eternity.
Slowly David drew the strong Scottish face down beside his own. Then he said something in a tone so low that no other ear could hear; Geordie's answer was in a trembling whisper—but both spoke a language not of time.
"Lift me up, Geordie—Harvey, lift me up," David's feeble voice broke out a moment later. "I want to look once more," his eyes turning to the window. The sun had set, and the gilded west was bathed in glory as they tenderly lifted the wasted form, the weary head resting on the bosom of his child.
David's eyes, wondrously lightened now, rested long on the crimson pathway. "It's a lovely road to go!" he murmured, gazing at the lane of light. "I'm glad I'm not goin' in the dark—things looks so strange in the dark. An' I'm glad..."
It was Geordie Nickle who bended low, as though he were love's best interpreter, passionately listening for the ebbing words. The receding tide flowed back in a moment, and David's voice came clearer: "An' I'm glad it's the evenin'—things looks clearest in the evenin' or the mornin'—it's the long afternoon that's dark."
Geordie was almost on his knees beside him, the strong Scottish face wrung with its depth of feeling. "Oh, David," he cried with the eagerness of a child, "ye'll sune be hame. An' we're all comin'—we'll no' be lang. An' oor Faither's hoose has mony mansions—if it were na' so..." but the choking voice refused.