er gaieties and the vanities and the possessions and the hot
strife for gain cease to be important, we return to very simple things.
For then, sunset is at hand, and the peace of Home calls to us far more
clearly than the roar of the outer world. The evening of life comes
bearing its own lamp."

Her face had grown graver, but still was radiant. The Dead Man smiled as
he said:

"Then, as a little old grandmother--a little old child whose bedtime is
drawing near, I shall still see you; happy to sit out in the sunlight
of another day; asking no more of life than a few hours still to be
spent with those you love;--telling your grandchildren how much more
brightly the flowers used to blossom when _you_ were young.--All that
happens, happens again.

"And then, one glad day, glorified, radiant, young once more--divinely
young,--you will come to us. And your mother and I shall take you in our
arms again. Oh, what a meeting it will be! To _you_, many happy years
away. To _us_, only a brief hour of waiting. We shall meet so perfectly
then--the flight of Love to Love. And now," bending down once more and
kissing her, "good-night, my own little girl."

She rose, half-dazzled by the brightness that filled her soul. Pausing
to bury her face for a moment in the bowl of roses, she murmured:

"Dear, _dear_ Oom Peter!"

Then, slowly, smilingly, she made her way up the stairs to her own room.
The Dead Man's eyes followed her every light step. The Dead Man's hand
was raised in unspoken benediction. Marta bustled in from the kitchen on
her nightly round of window-locking and door-barring. As she passed the
big wall clock, she stopped, sighed right lugubriously, and proceeded to
wind the ancient timepiece by the simple old-time process of drawing
down its pulley chain.

"Poor old Marta!" said Peter Grimm quizzically, as she departed. "Every
time she thinks of me, she winds my clock. We're not quite forgotten
after all, it seems. Good-night, old friend! There are a few tears ahead
of you. But there is plenty of sunshine beyond them."

He glanced about the room, his eyes resting at last on Willem's door in
the gallery above. The door swung open, and Dr. McPherson appeared on
the threshold. In one hand he held a candle-stick. In the hollow of his
right arm lay Willem, a Dutch patchwork bedquilt wrapped around him.

"All right, laddie," McPherson was saying in a voice whose softness
would have amazed the Batholommeys. "Since you want s