Father Philip never called her child except on rare occasions when her conduct displeased him, and she would have felt hurt at the appellation now had it not been for the unusual circumstances of the case. She looked inquiringly at him to fathom his meaning, but, seeing nothing to remove, she would have asked him what it was he meant, had he not interrupted her. "Take it away, Dorothy," he repeated, "I cannot see." "Poor brother," exclaimed Nicholas, noticing the discomfiture. "I fear me thou art blind. There is naught to take away, save the film from off thine eyes." "Brother, did you say?" asked the dying man. "Did you say brother; are you then the priest? Praise be to God; I shall die easy now," and he buried his face in the pillow and wept for joy. "Let him lie as he is," whispered Nicholas; "he will be far easier so. Poor man, he is indeed at the portals of death." "The leech said so," replied the heart-broken Dorothy, and then for a long time they sat motionless, watching with intense earnestness each movement of the dying man. The good father wept unrestrainedly. His whole frame quivered with emotion as the sobs escaped his breast; until, after a time, the sounds gradually and yet perceptibly grew weaker and fainter, and finally died away altogether. "He is dead!" sobbed Dorothy, after a long pause. "Nay, see," replied her companion, "his bosom heaves, but the end is very near. May my last hour be as calm as this," he added earnestly, as he gazed as the father. "Amen, so be it, Nicholas Bury," said a voice from the region of the doorway. The monk started at the sound of his name, but did not move; the tapers were burning before the altar, and the curtain was drawn, and he failed to distinguish the features of the visitor. Dorothy, even through her ears, noticed that he was startled and discomposed, and she hastened to reassure him. "No harm, no harm, good father; 'tis but Master John Manners," she said. "You have not forgotten me, surely?" inquired Manners, stepping forward, and throwing the light upon his face. The priest gave a start of surprise as he recognised the visage of the new comer. "Forgotten a Rutland?" he exclaimed. "No, never! Right glad am I to meet with thee again, but hush! This is the chamber of death. I will see thee afterwards. The father moves, see." Father Philip endeavoured to turn himself over, but he was too weak to succeed, and he fell back exhausted. "Oh, dear," he groaned, "I am a sinful man." "So are we all, brother," returned Nicholas. "The best of us are very sinful." "Dorothy." Doll stood up and leaned over the bed. "Give me your hand, my daughter." She placed her hands between the thin hands which the father held out feebly to her, while the hot tears trickled down her face and fell in rapid succession upon the quilted coverlid beneath.