I slipped one of the sixpences back into my pocket, holding out the other. But I have often wondered since that he did not stun me with a blow, and take the two. Perhaps he could not entirely divest himself of that idea of the "ambush." I did not like the leering look on his false face as he sidled cautiously up towards the sixpence. "Take a look at him; you can see him from the stile," I said, closing my hand over the sixpence while I spoke; "convince yourself that he is there, and that no trickery is meant. And, Raddy," I added, slowly opening the hand again, "perhaps you may want help one of these days yourself in some desperate need. Do this good turn for him, and the like will be done for you." I tossed him the sixpence. He stole cautiously to the stile, making a wide circuit round me to do it, glanced at Van Rheyn, and then made straight off in the right direction as fast as his legs would carry him, the dog barking at his heels. Van Rheyn was better when I got back to him; his breathing easier, the mouth less blue; and his arms were no longer clutching the tree-trunk. Nevertheless, there was that in his face that gave me an awful fear and made my breath for a moment nearly as short as his. I sat down beside him, letting him lean against me, as well as the tree, for better support. "Are you afraid, Charley? I hope they'll not be long." "I am not afraid with this," he answered with a happy smile--and, opening his hand, I saw the little cross clasped in it. Well, that nearly did for me. It was as though he meant to imply he knew he was dying, and was not afraid to die. And he did mean it. "You do not comprehend?" he added, mistaking the look of my face--which no doubt was desperate. "I have kept the Saviour with me here, and He will keep me with Him there." "Oh--but, Charley! You _can't_ think you are going to die." "Yes, I feel so," he answered quite calmly. "My mother said, that last Sunday, might not be long after her. She drew me close to her, and held my hand, and her tears were falling with mine. It was then she said it." "Oh, Charley! how can I help you?" I cried out in my pain and dread. "If I could only do something for you!" "I would like to give you this," he said, half opening his hand again, as it rested on his breast, just to show me the cross. "My mother has seen how good you have always been for me: she said she should look down, if permitted, to watch for me till I came. Would you please keep it to my memory?" The hardest task I'd ever had in my life was to sit there. To sit there quietly--helpless. Dying! And I could do nothing to stay him! Oh, why did they not come? If I could only have run somewhere, or done something!