“Leopold,” he said, taking his hand, “I would gladly, if I might, walk with you through the shadow. But the heart of all hearts will be with you. Rest in your tent a little while, which is indeed the hollow of the Father’s hand turned over you, with your strong brother watching the door. Your imagination cannot go beyond the truth of him who is the Father of lights, or of him who is the Elder Brother of men.” Leopold answered only with his eyes. Polwarth turned to go, and saw the on-lookers. They stood between him and the door, but parted and made room for him to pass. Neither spoke. He made a bow first to one and then to the other, looking up in the face of each, unabashed by smile or scorn or blush of annoyance, but George took no notice, walking straight to the bed the moment the way was clear. Helen’s conscience, however, or heart, smote her, and, returning his bow, she opened the door for her brother’s friend. He thanked her, and went his way. “Poor dear fellow!” said George kindly, and stroked the thin hand laid in his: “can I do anything for you?” “Nothing but be good to Helen when I am gone, and tell her now and then that I’m not dead, but living in the hope of seeing her again one day before long. She might forget sometimes--not me, but that, you know.” “Yes, yes, I’ll see to it,” answered George, in the evil tone of one who faithfully promises a child an impossibility. Of course there was no more harm in lying to a man who was just on the verge of being a man no more, and becoming only an unpleasant mass of chemicals, which a whole ant-heap of little laws would presently be carrying outside the gates of the organic, than there had been in lying to him when he supposed him a madman. Neither could anyone blame him for inconsistency; for had he not always said in the goodness of his heart, that he would never disturb the faith of old people drawing nigh their end, because such no more possessed the needful elasticity of brain to accommodate themselves to the subversion of previous modes of feeling and thought, unavoidable to the adoption of his precious revelation. Precious he did believe it, never having himself one of those visions of infinite hope, which, were his theory once proved as true as he imagined it, must then indeed vanish for ever. “Do you suffer much?” asked George. “Yes--a good deal.” “Pain?” “Not so much;--sometimes. The weakness is the worst. But it doesn’t matter: God is with me.” “What good does that do you?” asked George, forgetting himself, half in contempt, half in a curiosity which he would have called, and which perhaps was, scientific. But Leopold took it in good faith, and answered, “It sets it all right, and makes me able to be patient.” George laid down the hand he held, and turned sadly to Helen, but said nothing. The next moment Wingfold entered. Helen kissed the dying hand, and left the room with George. CHAPTER XXIII. THE GARDEN.