"My last gratefulblessing to Penrose. And to you. May I not say

it? You have saved Arthur"--his eyes turned toward Stella--"you
have been _her_ best friend." He paused to recover his feeble

breath; looking round the large room, without a creature in it
but ourselves. Once more the melancholy shadow of a smile passed

over his face--and vanished. I listened, nearer to him still.
"Christ took a child on His knee. The priests call themselves

ministers of Christ. They have left me, because of _this_ child,
here on my knee. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Winterfield, Death is a

great teacher. I know how I have erred--what I have lost. Wife
and child. How poor and barren all the rest of it looks now!"

He was silent for a while. Was he thi nking? No: he seemed to be
listening--and yet there was no sound in the room. Stella,

anxiously watching him, saw the listening expression as I did.
Her face showed anxiety, but no surprise.

"Does it torture you still?" she asked.
"No," he said; "I have never heard it plainly, since I left Rome.

It has grown fainter and fainter from that time. It is not a
Voice now. It is hardly a whisper: my repentance is accepted, my

release is coming. --Where is Winterfield?"
She pointed to me.

"I spoke of Rome just now. What did Rome remind me of?" He slowly
recovered the lost recollection. "Tell Winterfield," he whispered

to Stella, "what the Nuncio said when he knew that I was going to
die. The great man reckoned up the dignities that might have been

mine if I had lived. From my place here in the Embassy--"
"Let me say it," she gently interposed, "and spare your strength

for better things. From your place in the Embassy you would have
mounted a step higher to the office of Vice-Legate. Those duties

wisely performed, another rise to the Auditorship of the
Apostolic Chamber. That office filled, a last step upward to the

highest rank left, the rank of a Prince of the Church."
"All vanity!" said the dying Romayne. He looked at his wife and

his child. "The true happiness was waiting for me here. And I
only know it now. Too late. Too late."

He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his weary eyes. We
thought he was composing himself to sleep. Stella tried to

relieve him of the boy. "No," he whispered; "I am only resting my
eyes to look at him again." We waited. The child stared at me, in

infantine curiosity. His mother knelt at his side, and whispered
in his ear. A bright smile irradiated his face; his clear brown

eyes sparkled; he repeated the forgotten lesson of the bygone
time, and called me once more, "Uncle Ber'."

Romayne heard it. His heavy eyelids opened again. "No," he said.
"Not uncle. Something better and dearer. Stella, give me your

hand."
Still kneeling, she obeyed him. He slowly raised himself on the

chair. "Take her hand," he said to me. I too knelt. Her hand lay
cold in mine. After a long interval he spoke to me. "Bernard

Winterfield," he said, "love them, and help them, when I am
gone." He laid his weak hand on our hands, clasped together. "May

God protect you! may God bless you!" he murmured. "Kiss me,
Stella."

I remember no more. As a man, I ought to have set a better
example; I ought to have preserved my self-control. It was not to

be done. I turned away from them--and burst out crying.
The minutes passed. Many minutes or few minutes, I don't know

which.
A soft knock at the door aroused me. I dashed away the useless

tears. Stella had retired to the further end of the room. She was
sitting by the fireside, with the child in her arms. I withdrew

to the same part of the room, keeping far enough away not to
disturb them.

Two strangers came in and placed themselves on either side of
Romayne's chair. He seemed to recognize them unwillingly. From

the manner in which they examined him, I inferred that they were
medical men. After a consultation in low tones, one of them went

out.
He returned again almost immediately, followed by the gray-headed

gentleman whom I had noticed on the journey to Paris--and by
Father Benwell.

The Jesuit's vigilant eyes discovered us instantly, in our place
near the fireside. I thought I saw suspicion as well as surprise

in his face. But he recovered himself so rapidly that I could not
feel sure. He bowed to Stella. She made no return; she looked as

if she had not even seen him.
One of the doctors was an Englishman. He said to Father Benwell:

"Whatever your business may be with Mr. Romayne, we advise you to
enter on it without delay. Shall we leave the room?"

"Certainly not," Father Benwell answered. "The more witnesses are
present, the more relieved I shall feel." He turned to his

traveling companion. "Let Mr. Romayne's lawyer," he resumed,
"state what our business is."

The gray-headed gentleman stepped forward.
"Are you able to attend to me, sir?" he asked.

Romayne, reclining in his chair, apparently lost to all interest
in what was going on, heard and answered. The weak tones of his

voice failed to reach my ear at the other end of the room. The
lawyer, seeming to be satisfied so far, put a formal question to

the doctors next. He inquired if Mr. Romayne was in full
possession of his faculties.

Both the physicians answered without hesitation in the
affirmative. Father Benwell added _his_ attestation. "Throughout

Mr. Romayne's illness," he said firmly, "his mind has been as
clear as mine is."

While this was going on, the child had slipped off his mother's
lap, with the natural restlessness of his age. He walked to the

fireplace and stopped--fascinated by the bright red glow of the
embers of burning wood. In one corner of the low fender lay a

loose little bundle of sticks, left there in case the fire might
need relighting. The boy, noticing the bundle, took out one of

the sticks and threw it experimentally into the grate. The flash
of flame, as the stick caught fire, delighted him. He went on

burning stick after stick. The new game kept him quiet: his
mother was content to be on the watch, to see that no harm was

done.
In the meantime, the lawyerbriefly stated his case.

"You remember, Mr. Romayne, that your will was placed, for safe
keeping, in our office," he began. "Father Benwell called upon

us, and presented an order, signed by yourself, authorizing him
to convey the will from London to Paris. The object was to obtain

your signature to a codicil, which had been considered a
necessary addition to secure the validity of the will.--Are you

favoring me with your attention, sir?"
Romayne answered by a slight bending of his head. His eyes were

fixed on the boy--still absorbed in throwing his sticks, one by
one, into the fire.

"At the time when your will was executed," the lawyer went on,
"Father Benwell obtained your permission to take a copy of it.

Hearing of your illness, he submitted the copy to a high legal
authority. The written opinion of this competent person declares

the clause, bequeathing the Vange estate to Father Benwell, to be
so imperfectly expressed, that the will might be made a subject

of litigation after the testator's death. He has accordingly
appended a form of codicil amending the defect, and we have added

it to the will. I thought it my duty, as one of your legal