Lucy did not stay to dress. She hurried across the passage with her hair falling over her shoulders and her dressing-gown, which she did not stay to put on properly, trailing on the ground behind her. Her nerves were so over-strung that it seemed to her that its rustle on the floor sent a whisper after her the whole length of the passage. It was like the Master's voice. The face on the pillow had changed since she had seen it last. It was sharper and grayer, and the breath came shorter and at longer intervals. The shadows were already closing around her when Lucy came into the room. She no longer opened her eyes when the girl spoke to her--she would never open them again here--but her lips were moving. Lucy bent over her with her ear to the failing lips, but she could not catch the faint, broken words. 'I cannot hear you, dear,' she said, while her tears fell on the meekly folded hands that were groping no longer. 'I cannot catch what you say. Is it about the Master?' She had touched the right chord--the only chord that stretched across the gulf--and the feeble lips moved. They only framed a single word: '_Where?_' 'Where is the Master?' Lucy said eagerly. 'Oh, he is waiting for you at the gate. His last--last message was: "I shall see her at the gate!"' The face on the pillow changed. It changed as Lucy bent over it. The great, solemn change! Over all the weakness and the weariness came, not a shadow, but a light--the wondrous light of the full fruition of her changeless love. CHAPTER XXV. THE STALL IN THE BUTTER-MARKET. The Senior Tutor took all the trouble of the funeral--or the funerals, rather--off the Master's nieces. He came over directly he heard that the Master was dead, and arranged everything. He knew his last wishes, expressed long ago when he was in health and the end seemed a long way off. His wishes had been so clearly expressed that there could be no doubt about them. He had provided for every contingency. He was to lie beside his wife. If she preceded him, he was to be laid by her side wherever she was laid. If he should happen to die before her, he was to be carried back to the old place, to the old churchyard where all his humble forefathers lay, to go back to where he had started, and find his last resting-place where his life had begun. In no case was he to be buried in the college chapel. They might put up a brass for him on the old walls, among the carven tombs and tablets of the old Masters and Fellows, but the dust of his bones should not mix with theirs.