resolution. He gasped and with a heavy sigh led the way home. William
walked with him, not knowing what to think or do or say; at last he
muttered, "I wouldn't go, if my heart was here!"

"I shall go, Will," replied George, rather sternly as it seemed.

When they came back to the house they found several persons collected.

Old Fielding, the young men's grandfather, was there; he had made them
wheel him in his great chair out into the sun.

Grandfather Fielding had reached the last stage of human existence. He
was ninety-two years of age. The lines in his face were cordage, his
aspect was stony and impassible, and he was all but impervious to
passing events; his thin blood had almost ceased to circulate in his
extremities; for every drop he had was needed to keep his old heart
a-beating at all, instead of stopping like a clock that has run down.

Meadows had returned to see George off, and old Merton was also there,
and he was one of those whose hearts gave them a bit of a twinge.

"George," said he, "I'm vexed for speaking unkind to you to-day of all
days in the year; I didn't think we were to part so soon, lad."

"No more about it, uncle," faltered George; "what does it matter now?"

Susan Merton came out of the house; she had caught her father's
conciliatory words; she seemed composed, but pale; she threw her arms
round her father's neck.