riends or relatives to
whom he would want to send a message,--or perhaps see? People you never
heard of?"

"Oh, no, no," responded Dr. Howe. "I've known William Denner, man and
boy, these sixty years. He hasn't any friends I don't know about; he
could not conceal anything, you know; he is as simple and straightforward
as a child. No; Willie Denner'll have his money,--there's not too much of
it,--and that's all there is to consider."

"But it is not only money," Helen went on slowly: "hasn't he a right to
know of eternity? Not just go out into it blindly?"

"Perhaps so,--perhaps so," the rector admitted, hiding his evident
emotion with a flourish of his big white silk handkerchief. "You see," he
continued, steadying his cane between his knees, while he took off his
glasses and began to polish them, "the doctor wants me to tell him,
Helen."

"I suppose so," she said sympathetically.

"And I suppose I must," the rector went on, "but it is the hardest task
he could set me. I--I don't know how to approach it."

"It must be very hard."

"Of course it seems natural to the doctor that I should be the one to
tell him. I'm his pastor, and he's a member of my church--Stay! is he?"
Dr. Howe thrust out his lower lip and wrinkled his forehead, as he
thought. "Yes, oh yes, I remember. We were confirmed at the same time,
when we were boys,--old Bishop White's last confirmation. But he hasn't
been at communion since my day."

"Why do you think that is, uncle Archie?" Helen asked.

"Why, my dear child, how do I know?" cried the rector. "Had his own
reasons, I suppose. I never asked him. And you see, Helen, that's what
makes it so hard to go and tell Denner that--that he's got to die.
Somehow, we never touched on the serious side of life. I think that's
apt to be the case with friends in our position. We have gone fishing
together since we were out of pinafores, and we have played whist,--at
least I've watched him,--and talked politics or church business over
our pipes; but never anything like this. We were simply the best of
friends. Ah, well, Denner will leave a great vacancy in my life."

They rode in silence for some time, and then Helen said gently, "Yes, but
uncle, dear, that is the only way you are going to help him now,--with
the old friendship. It is too late for anything else,--any religious aid,
I mean,--when a man comes to look death in the face. The getting ready
for death has gone, and it is death itself, then. A