But there would be loneliness there, with only Nicola and Jamie. Grandfather would hardly count, for he was failing from day to day. He who had always had such horror of enclosures now asked almost every evening if the doors were locked and bolted. What did he fear? Once, arousing from a doze, he earnestly called for his father. Aunt Deen took him up almost roughly: “You know very well that he has been dead these thirty years!” To our stupefaction he quickly replied, “No, no, not him, the other.” “What other? What do you mean?” “The one who was there a little while ago,” he said, pointing in the direction of the consulting room. Then we understood that there was a confusion of generations in his brain. He felt that he had lost his support, and very naturally our father had become his. Much affected by his confusion of mind, I became more just to him. Together we had lost the empire of liberty. The evening before my departure I went to my mothers room. I had expected to lend her courage for our parting, and behold I was weaker and more agitated than she. “I shall come back,” I said positively, “and I shall try to follow _him_.” We never spoke of him otherwise, among ourselves. “Yes,” she replied, “_your turn has come_.” Then she had heard and understood. And as, my head on her shoulder, I expressed my sorrow at leaving her in her trouble, she comforted me. “Listen; we must not be sad.” Was it she who spoke thus? I raised my head in surprise and looked at her; her face, ravaged by trials, chiselled by the sorrow of the most ardent love, was almost colourless. All its expression centred in her eyes, so gentle, so pure, so limpid. She was changed and aged. And yet there was in her an indescribable firmness which she imparted to all around her, no one knew how. “Don’t be surprised,” she said. “That first night I was so overwhelmed with despair that I prayed God to take me. I cried unto Him and He heard me. He sustained me, but in another way. I had not believed enough. Now I believe as we ought to believe. We are not parted, don’t you see?--We are going forward to meet again.” A Book of Hours was lying on the work table beside her. I mechanically took it up. It opened of itself to a page which she must have read often. “Read it aloud,” she said. It was the prayer of the dying, to be recited during the approach of death: