spent a good deal of his time trying to think of ways in which he could
circumvent the choking sensation that often came to him. Marcella
brought some comfort by placing the kitchen ironing board across the
bed, resting on the backs of two chairs so that he could lean forward on
it. Sometimes he slept so, his grey head jerking forward and backward in
his weariness.

One night, when he could not sleep, he got out of bed and, leaning
on Marcella's shoulders, began to walk about. The moon was rising
desolately over Lashnagar, and he stood for a long time in the window
looking at the dead waste of it all. Suddenly he shivered.

"Father, ye're cold," said Marcella quickly. "Let me put on your socks.
It's a shame of me to let you stand barefoot so long."

He sat down on the deep window-seat, and the moonlight streamed in upon
his feet as she knelt beside him.

"Why, you are getting fat, father," she said. "I can hardly get your
socks on! And I thought your face looked thinner to-day. What a good
thing--if you get fat."

"Fat, Marcella?" he said in a strange, faint voice. "That's what the
doctor's been expecting. It's the last lap!"

"What do you mean, father? Isn't it better for you to be getting fat
now?"

He smiled a little and, bending down, pressed his fingers on the
swollen ankle. The indentations stayed there. She thought of the soft