f to leap
upon the floor. Kemp's quick, strong hand held him back.

"Where are you going?" he asked. Mrs. Levice stood instantly beside him.

"Oh," gasped Levice, his eyes falling upon her, "I wanted to get home;
but it is all right now. Is the child in bed, Esther?"

"Here she is; lie still, Jules; you know you are ill."

"But not now. Ah, Kemp, I can get up now; I am quite well, you know."

"Wait till morning," he resisted, humoring this inevitable idiosyncrasy.

"But it is morning now; and I feel so light and well. Open the shutters,
Ruth; see, Esther; a beautiful day."

It was quite dark with the darkness that immediately precedes dawn;
the windows were bespangled with the distillations of the night, which
gleamed as the light fell on them.

Mrs. Levice seated herself beside him.

"It is very early, Jules," she said, smiling with hope, not knowing that
this deceptive feeling was but the rose-flush of the sinking sun; "but
if you feel well when day breaks you can get up, can't he Doctor?"

"Yes."

Levice lay back with closed eyes for some minutes. A quivering smile
crossed his face and his eyes opened.

"Were you singing that song just now, Ruth, my angel?"

"What son, Father dear?"

"That--'Adieu,--adieu--pays--amours'--we sang it--you know--when we left
home together--my mother said--I was too small--too small--and--too--"

Ruth looked around wildly for Kemp. He had left the room; she must go
for him. As she came into the hall, she saw him and Louis hurriedly
advancing up the corridor. Seeing her, they reached her side in a
breath.

"Go," she whispered through pale lips; "he is breathing with that--"

Kemp laid his hand upon her shoulder.

"Stay here a second; it will be quite peaceful."

She looked at him in agony and walked blindly in after Louis.

He was lying as they had left him, with Mrs. Levice's hand in his.

"Keep tight hold, darling," the rattling voice was saying. "Don't take
it off till--another takes it--it will not be hard then." Suddenly he
saw Louis standing pale and straight at the foot of the bed.

"My good boy," he faltered, "my good boy, God will bless--" His eyes
closed again; paler and paler grew his face.

"Father!" cried Ruth in agony.

He looked toward her smiling.

"The sweetest word," he murmured; "it was--my glory."

Silence. A soul is passing; a simple, loving soul, giving no trouble in
its passage; dropping the toils, expanding with infinity. Not utterly