But his father had died upon that bed, and beside the dead man, between the candles at the head and the candles at the foot, he had sat the night through.

The curtains were half drawn, and in their shadow his imagination laid again that cold, inanimate form.

Twelve years ago! How young he had been that night, and how old he had thought himself as he watched beside the dead, chilled by the cold of the crossed hands, awed by the silence, half frighted by the shadows on the wall; now filled with natural grief, now with surreptitious and shamefaced thoughts of his changed estate,--yesterday son and dependent, to-day heir and master! Twelve years! The sigh and the smile were not for the dead father, but for his own dead youth, for the unjaded freshness of the morning, for the world that had been, once upon a time.
Turning in his seat, his eyes fell upon the man who had followed him, and who was now standing between the table and the door.

"Well, friend ?" he demanded.
The man came a step or two nearer.

His hat was in his hand, and his body was obsequiously bent, but there was no discomposure in his lifeless voice and manner.