It was the Duke, his father, who, hearing of Billy’s boyish impulse to avenge the murderous attack on his favourite son, decided that the London waif, who had paid for his temerity with his life, should not sleep his last sleep in a pauper’s grave. In life these two had been separated by an enormous social gulf. Rank and culture belonged to the son of the ducal house. In his veins flowed the blood of royalty--the blood of a lecherous monarch of the House of Stuart. But Billy?--Well, what mattered now? Death, the great leveller, had made such questions quite superfluous. Duke’s son and ragged outcast of the streets, they had entered into the same rest, and in death they were not divided. On Ranmore, one of the loveliest of the Surrey hills, they ended together the little journey of their mortal lives. The sun shone brightly on the churchyard; far overhead great billowy clouds, slow and majestic, sailed across the illimitable blue. The snow had vanished from the rolling hills. It might have been a day in early spring. “I am the resurrection and the life, said the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.... We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.” When they came to the graveside, aristocrat and pauper came with the same promise of life and immortality. As each had borne the image of the earthy, so each should bear the image of the heavenly. The boast of heraldry availed nothing. The pomp of power was as an idle tale. This was “the inevitable hour” for one and all! The old duke, white-haired and tremulous, lifted his tired eyes to the far-off sky when they committed to the earth the body of his much-loved son. The old man was trying to grasp the “sure and certain hope!” He could not weep, as others wept, for “these our brothers.” But two stalwart men, standing close at hand, could not keep back their tears. There was a great lump in the bull throat of P. C. Dormer that nearly choked him when he looked on the last home of the child in the tragedy of whose life he had played a cruel and much-repented part. The strong, rough man had found a place for sorrow and remorse, and it was sanctified with tears. And Joe the stableman, he, too, passed his huge red hand across his smarting eyes, sorrowing much that he would see his little friend no more. “Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow and never continueth in one stay.” Yet, there remaineth a rest.... “I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth blessed are the dead that die in the Lord: even so, saith the Spirit; for they rest from their labours.”