stopped praying, he did not speak or open his eyes for a longish while.
But when the old clock on the stable was striking twelve, he opened his
eyes wide, and when it had stopped, he said: 'It is always twelve by the
clock that stops at noon. I've done no good. I've earned my end.' He
looked as though he was waiting for the clock to go on striking, half
raising himself up in bed, with Miss Faith's arm under his head. He
whispered to her then--he couldn't speak by this time. 'It's twelve
o'clock,' he said. Then there came some words I've heard the priest say
at Mass, 'Vanitas, Vanitatum,'--that was what he said. And her he'd lied
to, there with him, laying his head down on the pillow, as if he was her
child going to sleep. So, too, she had him buried by her father, in the
Quaker burying-ground--ay, she is a saint on earth, I warrant."

For a moment after he had stopped the Duchess did not speak, but kept
untying and tying the blue ribbons under her chin, her faded eyes still
fastened on him, burning with the flame of an emotion which made them
dark and young again.

"So, it's all over," she said, as though to herself. "They were all
alike, from old Broadbrim, the grandfather, down to this one, and back to
William the Conqueror."

"Like as peas in a pod," exclaimed Soolsby--"all but one, all but one,
and never satisfied with what was in their own garden, but peeking,
peeking beyond the hedge, and climbing and getting a fall. That's what
they've always been evermore."

His words aroused the Duchess, and the air became a little colder about
her-after all, the division between the classes and the masses must be
kept, and the Eglingtons were no upstarts. "You will say nothing about