ranquil tone; "but there was nothing of value in it. My
money and my papers are in my pocket-book. Let me see you take
possession of it."

He watched Roland search for the book in the torn coat on the chair
beside him, and his eyes followed its transfer to his breast-pocket
under his blue blouse.

"You are an English gentleman, though you look a Swiss peasant," he
said; "you are poor, perhaps, and my money will be of use to you. It is
the only return I can make to you. I should like you to write down that
I give it to you, and let me sign the paper."

"Presently," said Roland; "you must not exert yourself. I shall find
your name and address here?"

"I have no address; of course I have a name," he answered; "but never
mind that now. Tell me, what do you think of Christ? Does He indeed save
sinners?"

"Yes," said Roland reluctantly; "He says, 'I came to seek and to save
that which was lost.' Those are His own words."

"Kneel down quickly," murmured the dying man. "Say 'Our Father!' so that
I can hear every word. My mother used to teach it to me."

"And she is dead?" said Roland.

"Years ago," he gasped.

Roland knelt down. How familiar, with what a touch of bygone days, the
attitude came to him; how homely the words sounded! He had uttered them
innumerable times; never quite without a feeling of their sacredness and
sweetness. But he had not dared to take them into his lips of late. His
voice faltered, though he strove to keep it steady and distinct, to
reach the dying ears that listened to him. The prayer brought to him the
picture of his children kneeling, morning and evening, with the
self-same petitions. They had said them only a few hours ago, and would
say them again a few hours hence. Even the dying man felt there was
something more than mere emotion for him expressed in the tremulous
tones of Roland Sefton's voice. He held out his hand to him when he had
finished, and grasped his warmly.

"God bless you!" he said. But he was weary, and his strength was failing
him. He slumbered again fitfully, and his mind wandered. Now and then
during the rest of the night he looked up with a faint smile, and his
lips moved inarticulately. He thought he had spoken, but no sound
disturbed the unbroken silence.

CHAPTER XIV.

ON THE ALTAR STEPS.

It was as the bells of the Abbey rang for matins that the stranger died.
For a few minutes Roland remained beside him, and then he called in the
women to attend t