"All, you loved him, Power," said Henderson, "because your tastes were like his. But I owe a great deal to him--more than I can ever tell you. I don't feel as if I could tell you now, while he lies there so ill, poor fellow. He has saved me more than once from vigorous efforts to throw myself away. But for him I should have gone to the devil long, long ago. I was _very_ near it once." He sighed, and as they walked by the violet margent of the evening waves, he offered up in silence an earnest prayer that Daubeny might live. The blind old poet would have said that the winds carried the prayer away and scattered it. But no winds can scatter, no waves can drown, the immortal spirit of one true prayer. Unanswered it _may_ be--but scattered and fruitless, _not_! CHAPTER NINETEEN. THE SCHOOL-BELL. To me the thought of death is terrible, Having such hold of life; to you it is not More than the sudden lifting of a latch; Nought but a step into the open air, Out of a tent already luminous With light that shines through its transparent fold. Longfellow's Golden Legend. "I've got a good piece of news for you, Master Daubeny," said the kind old school-nurse. "What is it? is my mother here?" he said eagerly. "O! let her come and see me." She was at the door, and the next moment his arms were round her neck in a long embrace. "Darling, darling mother," he exclaimed, "now I shall be happy, now that you have come. Nay, you mustn't cry, mother," he said, as he felt one of her fast flowing tears upon his forehead; "you've come to help me in bearing up." "Dearest Johnny," she said, "I trust yet that God will spare the widow's only son; He Who raised the son of the widow of Nain will pity us." "His ways are not ours, mother dear; I do not think that I shall recover. My past life hangs before me like a far-off picture already; I lie and look at it almost as if it were not mine, and my mind is quite at peace; only sometimes my head is all confused." "God's will be done, Johnny," sobbed the poor lady. "But I do not think I can live, if you be taken from me." "Taken--but not for ever, mother," he said, looking up into her face. "O Johnny, _why, why_ did you not spare yourself, and work less? It is the work which has killed you." "Only because it fell heavier on me than on other boys. They got through it quickly, but I was not so clever, and it cost me more to do my duty. I tried to do it, mother dear, and God helped me. All is well as it is. O my head, my head!" "You must rest, darling. My visit and talk has excited you. Try to go to sleep." "Then sit there, mother, opposite me, so that I may see you when I wake."