Illness and death are great softeners of human hearts. It was wonderful how tender the people who knew Mr. Knight became towards him when they heard that he was dying. All thought the best and none the worst of him then. And when they looked through the eyes of love and pity, instead of those of censure, they were not long in finding his good traits. Even his workpeople altered their tones. “After all,” they said, “he had been no worse a master than other men. Of course, he had tried to get all he could out of them; it was only natural—other people did the same. And it was not altogether his fault, perhaps, that he had not used better materials; people would have nasty cheap things nowadays, and they could not expect them to be cheap and good too.” So they talked, the people whose hearts are mostly kind at the bottom, not because they quite believed what they said, nor because they did not understand the meaning of justice, truth, and honesty, but because in the presence of death even the hardest becomes pitiful. It was a great comfort to Arthur Knight to know that many kind inquiries were being made and much sympathy shown for his father, and these things helped him through the time of waiting. It was not a very long time either. “He has not the strength to rally,” said the doctors. “He may have a gleam of consciousness towards the last, but it is scarcely likely, and the end may come at any time.” The end came suddenly. Mr. Knight opened his eyes and fixed them upon his son. “Arthur,” he said. “Yes, father; I am here. I love you. What can I do for you?” The eyes closed wearily again for some minutes. Then they were once more lifted to the sorrowful and sympathetic face bending over him, and the dying man made an effort to speak. “Arthur—undo it all—if you can—and pray for me. God be merciful—to me—a sinner.” Then, after a few minutes of struggle, his eyes closed, and his face grew calm. CHAPTER VI. ARTHUR KNIGHT’S INHERITANCE.