Mrs. Price turned from the bed upon which Joseph was lying, and went up to the Teacher. She caught him by the arm--Joseph was witness of it all--and bowed her head upon it. Then once more she began to sob. "Oh, man, man," she said, "I've loved ye and tended ye for many years now. And my father, and my mother, and my people for a hundred years before, have served the house of Lys. But you have led me from the bondage of darkness and sin into peace and light. Ye brought me to the Lord Jesus, Lluellyn Lys. Aye and the Holy Ghost came down upon me when I gave my heart to the Lord! And now, 'tis near over, 'tis all near done, and my heart is bitter heavy, Lys. Master, my heart is bowed down with woe and grief!" Lluellyn gently took the poor old thing by the arm. He led her to the bedside where Joseph lay. "Old friend," he said--"dear old faithful friend and servant, it is not me whom you must call Master any more. My work is nearly done, the time of my departure draws near. Here is your Master." The old dame, clinging to Lluellyn's arm, looked down at Joseph. Then she started violently, and began to tremble like an autumn leaf in the wind. The old face, browned by a thousand days of mountain sun and storm, grew pale under its tan. She looked up into Lluellyn's eyes with an interrogation that was almost fierce in its intensity. "I see something, Lys!" she said. "I see something! What does it mean--what is it, Master? I never saw it before!" Lluellyn answered her gravely and slowly. "I know not," he said, "save only that it is God's will. All has not yet been revealed to me. But I shall know soon, very soon, Anna, old friend. And, as you are a godly woman of the Lord, I charge you that you go with this man when he departs from this place. Leave us now, Anna. I have somewhat to do with Joseph." As his voice fell and ceased, the old lady went weeping from the room. For some little time there was a dead silence in the place. Joseph's brain was in a whirl, but his eyes were fixed upon the tall figure of the Teacher. Lluellyn Lys was strangely altered. His thin form was thinner still. Always fragile in appearance, he now seemed as if a breath would blow him away. His face and hands were deathly white, and his whole appearance suggested a man almost bloodless, from whom all vitality had been literally drained away. "You are ill, Lluellyn," Joseph said at length. The Teacher shook his head. "No, dear friend," he answered. "I do what I have to do, that is all." As he spoke, he drew a chair up to the bedside, and, stretching out his long, thin hands, placed the finger-tips of one upon Joseph's forehead, and those of the other upon his pulse. A dim memory, faint and misty, came to Joseph of his recent illness. Lluellyn had sat in this position before, the touch of his fingers was familiar somehow or other, the stooping form awoke a chord of memory.