Helen made haste to let him have his will. They prepared a sort of litter, and the curate and the coachman carried him. Hearing what they were about, Mrs. Ramshorn hurried into the garden to protest, but protested in vain, and joined the little procession, walking with Helen, like a second mourner, after the bier. They crossed the lawn, and through a double row of small cypresses went winding down to the underground passage, as if to the tomb itself. They had not thought of opening the door first, and the place was dark and sepulchral. Helen hastened to set it wide. “Lay me down for a moment,” said Leopold. “--Here I lie in my tomb! How soft and brown the light is! I should not mind lying here, half-asleep, half-awake, for centuries, if only I had the hope of a right good waking at last.” A flood of fair light flashed in sweet torrent into the place--and there, framed in the doorway, but far across the green field, stood the red cow, switching her tail. “And here comes my resurrection!” cried Leopold. “I have not had long to wait for it--have I?” He smiled a pained content as he spoke, and they bore him out into the sun and air. They set him down in the middle of the field in a low chair--not far from a small clump of trees, through which the footpath led to the stile whereon the curate was seated when he first saw the Polwarths. Mrs. Ramshorn found the fancy of the sick man pleasant for the hale, and sent for her knitting. Helen sat down empty-handed on the wool at her brother’s feet, and Wingfold, taking a book from his pocket, withdrew to the trees. He had not read long, sitting within sight and call of the group, when Helen came to him. “He seems inclined to go to sleep,” she said. “Perhaps if you would read something, it would send him off.” “I will with pleasure,” he said, and returning with her, sat down on the grass. “May I read you a few verses I came upon the other day, Leopold?” he asked. “Please do,” answered the invalid, rather sleepily. I will not pledge myself that the verses belonged to the book Wingfold held before him, but here they are. He read them slowly, and as evenly and softly and rhythmically as he could. They come to thee, the halt, the maimed, the blind, The devil-torn, the sick, the sore; Thy heart their well of life they find, Thine ear their open door. Ah! who can tell the joy in Palestine-- What smiles and tears of rescued throngs! Their lees of life were turned to wine, Their prayers to shouts and songs! The story dear our wise men fable call, Give paltry facts the mighty range; To me it seems just what should fall, And nothing very strange. But were I deaf and lame and blind and sore, I scarce would care for cure to ask; Another prayer should haunt thy door-- Set thee a harder task.