“I hope so.”
“Well, I believe there is,” he said, with unwonted decision. “I have always believed so, in spite of my bad practice, though I don’t know what it is; but I am not afraid though I’m no saint. It seems all right.”
“Yes, whatever it is, it must be all right,” Cartice answered. “It could not be anything else. But I wish we knew something about it. I wish we knew.”
“It may not be long before I know. You see what I am—a shadow of what I used to be, a wreck in everything and nobody to blame but myself. I guess the end of the road can’t be very far ahead. After I make the lonely journey, I’ll come back and tell you something about it if I can.”
“Ah, Colonel Layton, thousands, millions have started on that journey with the same promise upon their lips, but who has kept it?”
“Yes, it is a stumper,” he said, reflectively, “but in spite of it I have faith that perhaps I can. Mother and father are on the other side somewhere. This morning they seem very near to me—nearer than ever before since they went away. I feel that I might meet them at any turn.”
With a sigh and a smile he lifted his hat in graceful adieu and went slowly down the stairs, softly singing,
“Death like a narrow divides
That heavenly land from ours.”
Two hours later Cartice was sitting at her desk in the editorial office of the Register, when a stranger entered. Speaking low, as even the rudest do when they bring dread news, he said:
“Colonel Layton fell dead on the street a few minutes ago. He has been carried into Dr. Olcott’s office, and the doctor wants you to come at once. He knows you are a close friend of Mrs. Layton, and I guess he wants you to tell her and help make arrangements.”