“Don’t know?” His grandfather eyed him almost angrily. “What sort of answer is that? See here, I can’t have--At your age--You must promise me--” A violent cough seized him, and left him shaken and breathless. For a long time he rested, as if asleep. And when at last he spoke again, a smile of serene humor, of high forbearance and security, lighted the sunken eyes. “You promise nothing, boy. If I had promised my father--I’m an old fool. We’ve agreed to the main thing, already. It’s all right. You’re a man. Give me the--that nasty dose, there.” He sank back, as though he had reserved all his forces for their interview, and now lay exhausted. The ticking of a clock, the flutter of the fire, accompanied that labored breathing through slow and sorrowful hours. The watcher must have dozed; for of a sudden, the shadows of the hackmatack boughs quivered easterly along the floor. The afternoon was already closing. Ella sat, with folded hands, by the hearth. Time again dragged by, till the sleeper moved. Without seeming to wake, he whispered:-- “I can’t remember. Bring me the book.” A Bible lay on the table; but as though he heard Miles lift it, he shook his head. “I’ve read that. I know it. The other--below--the black book.” Ella nodded, stole from the room, and returned with the old man’s volume of the poets. “How does it go? Read to me, Miles. ‘Even so is time’--You know it.” Miles found the page, and with an unsteady voice obeyed. “‘Even such is time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who, in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days. But--’” The old man stopped him, with a sign of content, and took up the lines, whispering:-- “‘But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust!’” He lay very still; but when, after a time, Ella would have offered him something in a glass, he put her hand feebly aside. Miles could not hear their words, except, “If every one was faithful as you--” and the woman’s reply, “I’ll never leave him till he sends me away.” She rose, and, crossing to the window, where a row of geraniums glowed in the sunset, stood picking blindly at the dead leaves. He continued to speak, but neither audibly nor with the living. From time to time they caught the name of George, Godfrey, or Christopher. His eyes remained closed; but his face turned slightly, now and then, with the air of one who clearly saw and heard the persons in a ghostly conference. As day drooped into night, the seen fused with the unseen. And it was in a mystical twilight that he turned toward Miles, at last, with a look of grave relief, which told that the council had reached some fortunate conclusion. The lips barely moved, and indeed the eyes made their effort needless. “I’m satisfied, my boy.” The only praise he had ever given, it was beyond all value.