s eyes.

"Ay," Lord Cairnforth said to himself, when she had gone away, and he
was left alone in that helpless solitude which, being the inevitable
necessity, had grown into the familiar habit of his life, "ay, it is all
right. No harm could come--there would be nothing neglected--even
were I to die to-morrow."

That "dying to-morrow," which might happen to any one of us, how few
really recognize it and prepare for it! Not in the ordinary religious
sense of "preparation for death"--often a most irreligious thing
--a frantic attempt of sinning and terror-stricken humanity to strike
a balance-sheet with heaven, just leaving a sufficient portion on the
credit side--but preparation in the ordinary worldly meaning--
keeping one's affairs straight and clear, that no one may be perplexed
therewith afterward; forgiving and asking forgiveness of offenses;
removing evil done, and delaying not for a day any good that it is
possible to do.

It was a strange thing; but, as after his death it was discovered, the
true secret of the wonderful calmness and sweetness which, year by year,
deepened more and more in Lord Cairnforth's character, ripening it to a
perfectness in which those who only saw the outside of his could hardly
believe, consisted in this ever-abiding thought--that he might die
to-morrow. Existence was to him such a mere twilight, dim, imperfect,
and sad, that he never rested in it, but lived every day, as it were, in
prospect of the eternal dawn.

Chapter 9

This summer, which, as it glided away, Lord Cairnforth often declared to
be the happiest of his life, ended by bringing him the first heavy
affliction--external affliction--which his life had ever known.

Suddenly, in the midst of the late-earned rest of a very toilsome
career, died Mr. Menteith, the earl's long-faithful friend, who had been
almost as good to him as a father. He felt it sorely; the more so,
because, though his own frail life seemed always under the imminent
shadow of death, death had never touched him before as regarded other
people. He had lived, as we all unconsciously do, till the great enemy
smites us, feeling as if, whatever might be the case with himself, those
whom he loved could never die. This grief was something quite new to
him, and it struck him hard.

The tidings came on a gloomy day in late October, the season when
Cairnforth is least beautiful; for the thick woods about it make the
always damp atmosphere heavy