And ere the night fell, two messengers came gently to his side. One, radiant with 'white raiment' and drooped wings; the other, footsore, travel-stained, and war-worn. And one was the Angel of Death, who stood and looked upon them pitifully; the other was his prodigal son, who kneeled and folded his arms around his father, and bowed his head and wept.
'Now,' said Sir Vincent, 'I die in peace. How have I yearned for thee! God bless thee! I bless thee, my boy! Deb, this is death!'
And so, raised in Charlie's strong arms and with his hands in Deborah's, without a struggle, the spirit passed away.
CHAPTER THE LAST.
Two figures stand together in one of the deep oriel windows of the old hall at Enderby. The blood-red splendour of a setting sun fills the marsh, the low land, and the hanging woods; and streaming like a beacon in at the windows, floods those two with radiant light. They are Charles Fleming and his bride. The storms have swept by, and left her thrice his own, with the old walls and the sacred hearth of Enderby. Thus may God send on us the lightning of His chastisement, and yet guide and guard us through all—through the morning of wild and sunny childhood; through the noon of gay and love-bright youth, environed as it is by perils; through the sudden-falling night of dread, despair, and death. He does not leave us 'comfortless.' As for Deborah Fleming, passionately as she loved the beauteous world, she never again lost sight of the valley up which had passed the souls of those she loved, and the golden gates across the shining flood. And in later days, when children's children clustered eagerly round the stately old Lady of Lincoln, she, with the faithfulness of old age, would return lovingly, lingeringly to the days of her youth, when 'Charlie and she were young.'
O happy time—blessed childhood—how can I end better than with thee? Over the shadows of evening rises the day-star of childhood's memories.
It knows no night—
There is no night in a glad and green old age.
THE END.