As soon as she was out of the room he lifted his hand with effort, laid feeble hold on Malcolm's jacket, and, drawing him down, kissed him on the forehead. Malcolm burst into tears and sank weeping by the bedside. Mr. Graham, entering a little after, and seeing Malcolm on his knees, knelt also and broke into a prayer. "O blessed Father!" he said, "who knowest this thing, so strange to us, which we call death, breathe more life into the heart of Thy dying son, that in the power of life he may front death. O Lord Christ! who diedst Thyself, and in Thyself knowest it all, heal this man in his sore need--heal him with strength to die." A faint _Amen_ came from the marquis. "Thou didst send him into the world: help him out of it. O God! we belong to Thee utterly. We dying men are Thy children, O living Father! Thou art such a father that Thou takest our sins from us and throwest them behind Thy back. Thou cleansest our souls as Thy Son did wash our feet. We hold our hearts up to Thee: make them what they must be, O Love! O Life of men! O Heart of hearts! Give Thy dying child courage and hope and peace--the peace of Him who overcame all the terrors of humanity, even death itself, and liveth for evermore, sitting at Thy right hand, our God-brother, blessed to all ages. Amen." "Amen!" murmured the marquis, and, slowly lifting his hand from the coverlid, he laid it on the head of Malcolm, who did not know it was the hand of his father blessing him ere he died. "Be good to her," said the marquis once more. But Malcolm could not answer for weeping, and the marquis was not satisfied. Gathering all his force, he said again, "Be good to her." "I wull, I wull," burst from Malcolm in sobs; and he wailed aloud. The day wore on, and the afternoon came. Still Lady Florimel had not arrived, and still the marquis lingered. As the gloom of the twilight was deepening into the early darkness of the winter night he opened wide his eyes, and was evidently listening. Malcolm could hear nothing, but the light in his master's face grew and the strain of his listening diminished. At length Malcolm became aware of the sound of wheels, which came rapidly nearer, till at last the carriage swung up to the hall-door. A moment, and Lady Florimel was flitting across the room. "Papa! papa!" she cried, and, throwing her arm over him, laid her cheek to his. The marquis could not return her embrace: he could only receive her into the depths of his shining, tearful eyes. "Flory!" he murmured, "I'm going away. I'm going--I've got--to make an--apology. Malcolm, be good--" The sentence remained unfinished. The light paled from his countenance: he had to carry it with him. He was dead. Lady Florimel gave a loud cry. Mrs. Courthope ran to her assistance. "My lady's in a dead faint," she whispered, and left the room to get help.