“There, child, all the pictures have faded,” he said. “The curtain has dropped—the old life is shut away by a door which can never be opened, for Anthony is dead. Let me weep for him, Nancy—I will; I must. Tears come slowly to the dying, but they rise in my eyes now when I remember Anthony. He is dead—he was murdered—he lies in his grave, but his murderer still sees the sunshine and feels the sweet breath of life—his murderer lives.” “But you are not to blame for that,” said Nancy; “no man could do more than you have done. When you see Anthony again in the strange world to which you are hurrying you will tell him all, and——” “I shall see him again,” said Dr. Follett, “and when I see him I will tell him that I have dropped my mantle on to you; you are to continue my work.” Nancy’s face grew so white that it looked almost like the face of one who had died; her lips slightly parted, her eyes, terror growing in them, became fixed on her father’s face. “I see another picture,” he said again suddenly. “I see the morning when Anthony went to Paris—to gay Paris, where he lost his life. He enters the room. How light is his laugh and how his eyes sparkle! He has said ‘farewell,’ he has gone. Wait a while—another picture is rising in that dark part of the room. Hold me, Nancy, my child, or I shall fall. I must look at it, but it horrifies me, it chills my blood. Do you see the man who has come into the room? His name is Eustace Moore.” “Oh! don’t let us recall that dreadful scene, father,” interrupted Nancy. “I must, child. Don’t interrupt me, let me go on describing the picture. Eustace Moore has come into the room. He is Anthony’s friend. He tells his awful tale. Cannot you hear what he says?” “No, dear father, I hear nothing. You are torturing yourself with all these dreadful memories; they are exciting you too much; it is dreadfully bad for you to talk as you do.” “Nothing is bad for me now. I am past the good or the bad of life. I stand on its threshold. Let me describe the picture. I hear Eustace Moore speaking. These are his words: “‘I have brought you terrible news, doctor. I cannot mince matters, nor break the blow in any way. Your son is dead!’ “‘Go on,’ I answer. I stagger, but I don’t fall; ‘go on, hurry, tell me everything.’