“He just reeled and fell, sir,” he said, “up the stairs into his room. I’ve laid him on the bed, and must get down to the stables to send for the doctor. Will you stay with him, sir, till I come back?” And without waiting for an answer he was gone. That evening I was still sitting by my friend’s side. I had food brought up to my room during the day, but except for those short intervals was with him continually. The doctor had come and gone. All that he could tell us was that the old man had had a seizure of some kind, and he had looked grave when I told him of the events of the night before. “His age is against him, too,” the doctor had said; “I cannot say what will happen.” And then he had given directions, and had left, promising to return again, at any rate the next morning. I had been trying to read with a shaded lamp, looking from time to time at the figure of the old man on the bed, as he lay white and quiet, with his eyes closed, as he had lain all day. At about six o’clock, I had just glanced at my watch, when a slight movement made me turn to the bed again, and I could see in the dim light that his eyes were open and fixed upon me, but all the pain was gone out of them, and they were a child’s eyes again. I rose and went to his side, and sat down in the same chair that I had occupied the night before. Immediately I had sat down he put out his hand, and I took it and held it. His eyes smiled at me, and then he spoke, very slowly, with long pauses. “Well,” he said, “you have been with me and have seen and heard, last night and this morning; but it is all ended, and the valley is lightening again at its eastern end where the sun rises. So it was not all dreams and fancies––those old stories that you bore with so patiently to please me. Now tell me what you heard and saw. Did you see them all in the room last night? and––and”––his eyes grew wide and insistent––“what did you see this morning?” Now the doctor had told me that he must not be over-excited, but soothed; and honestly enough, though some who may read this may not agree with me, I thought it was better to speak plainly of those things so strange to you and me, but so dear and familiar to him. And so I told him all I had heard and seen. “Ah!” he said when I had finished, “then we were not quite as one. But still you saw and heard more than most men. Now will you hear one more story? I will not tell you all I saw last night, because the Lord has been gracious to me, and is rising with healing in His wings on me and on many other poor creatures. But the wounds are aching still, and if you will spare me, I will not speak much of the shadows of last night, but only of the joys that came in the morning. Will you hear it?” “My dear old friend,” I said, “are you sure it will not be too much for you?” He shook his head; and then, still holding my hand in his, his fingers tightening and relaxing as he told his tale, with many pauses and efforts, he began: