collapse before he could be rescued from his dangerous environment. He was on the alert at once when, after an hour's absence, Mrs. Dunne returned with the reassuring message that everything would be in readiness to receive the patient. Noting her sister's address for the driver's guidance he gave instructions to the latter to wait at the Miss Bailey's gate while he went in to fetch a friend whom he was taking for a drive. Notwithstanding his easy bearing he felt decidedly ill at ease while waiting at the door for re-admittance. To his intense relief he learned from the servant who responded to his knock that the minister had left the house some minutes since the two Miss Baileys were out in the back garden chatting with a friend. Impressing on the girl his earnest desire that the ladies would not be disturbed on his account he made his way directly to the sick-room. The patient was sitting half erect as he went in; his dark eyes shone with a feverish expectancy; the white face, strained and ghastly, looked like a revivified corpse in the semi-darkness of the 100m. "You've come," he said in a faint whisper. "I've come," Bob Neville answered, hastening to the bedside. Take this, like a good fellow," producing a flask from which he poured a stimulant into a glass at hand. "There, that is better. Your clothes now-they're here, I guess," throwing open a wardrobe and grasping at the first outfit that came to his hand. The dressing proved a little arduous, but under those strong deft hands the task was soon accomplished. Lifting the slim figure, Bob Neville bore him from the room. At the door he paused to listen for a moment; a faint murmur of voices reached him from the servant's quarters, otherwise the house was very still. Midway across the hall, however, his quick ear caught the shrill tones of Miss Bailey's voice approaching from the rere. The fear of detection sent the blood tingling through his veins, but his eyes flashed with a warmer light, and swinging the street door open he gained the gateway in a few long strides. A group of children on the sidewalk stared in open-eyed amazement as he entered the car with his half conscious burthen; the driver, acting on a few brusque directions, sprang briskly to his seat: be fore the casual onlooker had time to put a question the car had rattled off and disappeared into an adjoining street. Bob Neville leaned back in his seat and breathed a deep sigh of relief. His venture had succeeded but it was a close shave. Of all the curious escapades that he had ever taken part in, this would take the lead. His action had been daring and highly unconventional but he did not dread the consequences; he had been forced to play a desperate game for a big stake, but the end, in his opinion, would fully justify the means. Had he called in a priest there might have been an awkward scene; possibly the proselytiser's influence would afterwards prevail-the very atmosphere of the place was weighted with danger to the sick man-his prompt removal was the one safe course to adopt. After a short drive the car slowed down at a pretty little cottage nestling in a tiny garden on the outskirts of the town. Mrs. Cronin, a kind-faced, motherly woman, awaited their arrival at the door; with her assistance the patient was promptly conveyed indoors and settled comfortably in a convenient room. So prostrate was he that Mrs. Cronin considered it advisable to have a priest and doctor in at onceshe could not really rest satisfied until both were on the scene. In giving his opinion, half an hour later, Dr. Bowles left little ground for hope. The case was extremely critical, he said; the young man's system had broken down under some heavy strain; besides, pneumonia had now set in, and with a heart already seriously affected the chances were that he might drop off at any moment. Father Phelan's call was more prolonged; when he left the patient's room at length his face wore a serene expression which clearly evidenced the success of his sacred mission. Bob Neville, who waited his coming in the garden, read in that look an answer to the eager query on his lips and with an innate delicacy of feeling forbore to put a single question. 66 "I think he will sleep now," the priest observed; “you can go in and talk with him when he is rested; I understand that he is anxious to leave his friends some parting messages. "Then there is no hope," Bob Neville said regretfully. "I think not, really. He may last for a few days, but even that is doubtful. I will be here in the morning to administer the last Sacraments, please God; meantime, will you kindly see that Mrs. Cronin admits no visitors?" "I think you may rely on her, sir, she fully understands the situation," the young man assured him as they parted at the gate. As events proved, the worthy woman proved herself quite equal to the trust reposed in her; when the Miss Baileys confronted her an hour later, and sharply demanded admittance to the sick-room, she was prepared with a polite but firm refusal; neither their threats nor protestations disturbed her amiability of temper, and she finally bowed out the irate ladies with the polite intimation that the visit need not be repeated. The next day passed quietly. Father Phelan's visits were infinitely consoling to the sick man; the haggard look had left his face; instead, it shone with the tranquil joy of a soul at peace with God. Lest his illness should take a feverish turn he had thought it well to settle some private matters with his friend, Bob Neville. The mention of one bequest which he held till the last broke down his feeble effort at restraint. "This was my mother's gift," he said huskily, producing from beneath his pillow a silver medal of the Sacred Heart. "I was a wild chap, as you know, Bob, and she believed, she said, that this would be-a talisman-against His voice broke into a heavy sob; some minutes passed before he could resume. "If you see Paul-sometime, you will give it to him. Poor Paul believed in me, you know-perhaps he'll never know how low I fell. You won't ever tell him, Bob?you'll spare him that?" His friend clasped close in his the appealing hand extended to him. "Your secret will be safe with me-you may rely on that," he said decisively. "You The sick man leaned back with a contented sigh. were like that always-true as steel," he said after a pause. "I haven't any words to thank you-my brain is dizzy-the words won't come somehow. I hope, if ever I get to The hope he entertained was left unfinished-a knock at the door cut short their interview. Mrs. Cronin had come to deliver a message from Dr. Hazel who was just home and wished particularly to see Mr. Neville. Promising to be back in a short while Bob Neville bade his friend a short adieu and left the house. The call however necessitated a few hours' absence. On his return to the cottage he met Father Phelan who was on his way out. The sympathetic touch of the priest's hand upon his shoulder prepared him instantly for news. "Has anything happened, sir?" he asked uneasily, his face paling with the question. "Yes-just what I expected," the priest answered. "It is all over-well over, thank God. The end came almost suddenly." Seeing the tears start into the listener's eyes he added in his soft consoling voice: "His death was all that you could wish. Up to the last moment of consciousness he kept his eyes fixed on the crucifix I held before him-even his lips moved with the prayers I whispered to him. I think you should have no regrets you should only feel proud and happy that he has died at peace with God." Bob Neville turned aside abruptly; and seeing this, Father Phelan, respectful of his feelings, passed slowly out with a subdued murmur of farewell. Two days later Eugene Darcy was laid to rest in the little cemetery attached to the Catholic Church; his grave was marked by a white cross-uninscribed, as he himself had earnestly desired; it was his wish that there, in that little seaport town, his memory might be soon forgotten. THE OLD SÈVRES CLOCK Ballade. It stands there finished, fresh, and gay The silk-clad shepherd tends his flock, That ancient soft-toned Sèvres clock! In a great château far away Its long, long vigil first it told- Since then what births, deaths, bridals, say, In Time's dim records it has scrolled! Envoy. Life's barks be launched, sailed, steered, or shoaled, Time tranquil shows nor smile, nor shock Like his recorder beauty-stoled That ancient soft-toned Sèvres clock! JOHN J. HAYDEN. |