Country," as it was fond of styling itself, had had thirty
years in which to show to Raeburn the loving kindness, the brotherhood,
the lofty generosity which each professed follower of Christ ought to
show in his life. Now the time was over, and it was too late.

The dying man bent forward, and a hard look came into his eyes, and a
sternness overspread his calm face.

"What has Christianity done for me?" he asked. "Look at my life. See how
I have been treated."

And Mr. Fane-Smith was speechless. Conscience-stricken, he knew that
to this there was no reply that HE could honestly make, and a question
dawned upon his mind Was his own "Christianity" really that of Christ?

As evening drew on, Raeburn's life was slowly ebbing away. Very slowly,
for to the last he fought for breath. All his nearest friends were
gathered round him, and to the end he was clearly conscious and, as in
life, calmly philosophical.

"I have been well 'friended' all my life," he said once, looking round
at the faces by his bedside.

They were all too broken-hearted to respond, and there were long
silences, broken only by the laboring breath and restless movements of
the dying man.

Toward midnight there was a low roll of distant thunder, and gradually
the storm drew nearer and nearer. Raeburn asked to be raised in bed that
he might watch the lightning which was unusually beautiful. It was a
strange, weird scene the plainly furnished hotel room, sparsely lighted
by candles, the sad group of watchers, the pale, beautiful face of the
young girl bending over the pillow, and the strong, rugged Scotchman
with his white hair and keen brown eyes, upon whose face death had
already set his pale tokens. From the uncurtained window could be seen
the dark outline of the adjacent houses and the lights lower down the
hill scattered here and there throughout the sleeping city. Upon all
this the vivid lightning played, and the distant thunder followed with
its mighty crash, rolling and echoing away among the surrounding hills.

"I am glad to have seen one more storm," said Raeburn.

But soon he grew weary, tired just with the slight exertion of looking
and listening. He sighed. To a strong, healthy man in the very prime of
life, this failing of the powers was hard to bear. Death was very near;
he knew it well enough knew it by this slow, sure, painless sinking.

He held Erica's hand more closely, and after that lay very still, once
or twice asking for mor