And probably I'll find death a very good sort of thing, too, when it comes." And so Patrick Lovell went forward, his spirit erect, to meet death with the same cheerful, half-humorous courage he had opposed to the emergencies of life.
It was a few days after this, on Christmas Eve, that Sara, coming into his special den with a gay little joke on her lips and a great bunch of mistletoe in her arms, was arrested by the sudden, chill quiet of the little room.
The familiar wheeled chair was drawn up to the window, and she could see the back of Patrick's head with its thick crop of grizzled hair, but he did not turn or speak at the sound of her entrance.
"Uncle, didn't you hear me?
Are you asleep?
.

.

.

_Uncle!_" Her voice shrilled on to a sharp staccato note, then cracked and broke suddenly.
There came no movement from the chair.

The silence remained unbroken save for the ticking of a clock and the loud beating of her own heart.
The two seemed to merge into one gigantic pulse.