had been conscious and able to talk coherently only a few moments
since his attack.

"The child is coming. She will be here," Mr. Maxwell said as he sat
there, his face showing marks of the strain of the week's vigil; for
he had insisted on sitting up nearly every night.

"I shall never see her in this world," the man whispered. Then he
uttered with great difficulty the words, "You have been good to me.
Somehow I feel as if it was what Jesus would do."

After a few minutes he turned his head slightly, and before Mr.
Maxwell could realize the fact, the doctor said quietly, "He is
gone."

The Sunday morning that dawned on the city of Raymond was exactly
like the Sunday of a week before. Mr. Maxwell entered his pulpit to
face one of the largest congregations that had ever crowded the
First Church. He was haggard and looked as if he had just risen from
a long illness. His wife was at home with the little girl, who had
come on the morning train an hour after her father had died. He lay
in that spare room, his troubles over, and the minister could see
the face as he opened the Bible and arranged his different notices
on the side of the desk as he had been in the habit of doing for ten
years.

The service that morning contained a new element. No one could
remember when Henry Maxwell had preached in the morning without
notes. As a matter of fact he had done so occasionally when he first
entered the ministry, but for a long time he had carefully written