There was never any hope, though after a day or two he seemed to be getting better. His mind was quite clear, he knew everybody, but was too weak for many words. Only one thing, they said, was strange. He had entirely forgotten all that happened just before his illness. The hopes that were so keen, the cares that weighed so heavily, he never referred to again. Not a single fear for Dorothy ruffled the serenity of his thoughts. He smiled at her, smoothed her hair feebly as she knelt beside his bed, and sometimes kissed the little hand that ministered to his wants. But the untroubled look was very strange to those who had watched of late the gallant struggle with his failing powers that he had fought through for her sake. Now he was leaving her alone, and he did not even remember it. 'It is such a blessing, such a mercy,' Dorothy said, twisting her hands tightly together, her only sign of emotion. She looked calm, but there was no room for any thought beyond the moment itself--her father's hourly need of her, his sleep, his waking, the words of peace with which she tried to drive away the cloud that sometimes darkened over him, like a shadow thrown back from the days of his long life. 'So many years,' he used to say sadly, 'so many, many years.' Once only I was allowed to go into his room. Dorothy had been called away, and she bade me stand by the door ready to go for her the instant she was wanted. Like a picture I can recall the scene now. The darkened room--orderly and quiet--the narrow bed against the wall, on which the Professor lay--beside it the figure of Master Caleb bending forwards with a heavy book open upon his knees, the only book that was near at hand now--all the others had been taken away. He said the world's learning was over for him, its learning and its wisdom, and so by degrees Dorothy had moved all the books quietly away, and left the Bible. Master Caleb was reading to him now. The Professor had asked for some words that, half-remembered, kept sounding in his ears, and Master Caleb finding them, read them aloud. Sad words they seemed to be, whose burden was vanity and vexation of spirit--weary words, that told how all things are full of labour, and he who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow--strange words to read beside one who had learned so much, but who was going now to his long home, for the silver cord was loosened, and the pitcher was broken at the fountain. 'And further, my son, by these be admonished,' read Master Caleb slowly; 'of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness to the flesh.' The reader's voice sank lower and lower; the mournful words sounded like autumn winds sighing through leafless trees. He ceased, and the book sank upon his knees; still the sad echo, 'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,' went floating through the room. The dying man sighed heavily. 'All true,' he murmured; 'the dust shall return to the earth as it was,----'