Late into the night it went on, and then followed the collapse, with locked teeth, which could hardly be drawn asunder to put the stimulus hopelessly between them, and thus came the tardy December dawn, when the church-bell made Jenny bid Julius not stay, but only first read the commendatory prayer. "I thought there was a little more revival just now," he said; "his hands are warmer, and he really did swallow." The old nurse shook her head. "That's the way before they go," said she. "Don't ye wish him, poor lamb, it makes it the harder for him." Julius prayed the prayer, and as he tenderly laid his hand on the brow, he wondered whether he should find the half-closed eyes shut for ever on his return. But as he went, there was a quiver of lip and flicker of eyelid, the lightening, as Cranky called it, was evidently gaining ground. Herbert's faint whisper was heard again--"Jenny!" "Dearest!" "The Lord's Prayer!" She began,--his fingers tightened on hers. "Pray it for old Moy," he said; and as she paused, scarce hearing or understanding, "He--he wants it," gasped Herbert. "No! One can't pray it, without--" another pause. "Help me, Jenny. Say it--O Lord, who savedst us-- forgive us. Help us to forgive from our hearts that man his trespasses. Amen." Jenny said it. Herbert's voice sank in the Amen. He lay breathing in long gasps; but he thus breathed still when Julius came back, and Jenny told him that a few words had passed, adding-- "Julius, I will say nothing bitter again. God help me not to think it." Did Herbert hear? Was that the reason of the calm which made the white wasted face so beautiful, and the strange soft cool hush throughout the room? CHAPTER XXXIV Silver Hair And how should I your true love know From another man?--Friar of Orders Gray "Please God, I can try again." Those were the words with which Herbert Bowater looked into his Rector's face on awaking in the evening of that same December day from one of a series of sleeps, each sweeter and longer than the last, and which had borne him over the dreaded hours, without fever, and with strengthening pulse. Julius had not ventured to leave the sick-room that whole day, and when at last he went home and sank into the chair opposite Terry, for the first time through all these weeks of trouble and tension, he burst into a flood of tears. He had hardly made the startled lad understand that life, not death, had thus overcome him, when the door flew open, and in rushed Rosamond, crying, "Julius, Julius, come! It is he or his ghost!" "Who? What?" "It is your hair! At Mrs. Douglas's grave! He'll be gone! Make haste--make haste!" He started up, letting her drag him along, but under protest. "My dear, men _do_ come to have hair like mine."