Now he lay sleeping like a baby, resting easily on his back, his mouth just open, and his few gray hairs straggling from beneath his cap; his breath was perfectly noiseless, and his thin, wan hand, which lay above the coverlid, never moved.

Nothing could be easier than the old man's passage from this world to the next.
But by no means easy were the emotions of him who sat there watching.
He knew it must be now or never.

He was already over fifty, and there was little chance that his friends who were now leaving office would soon return to it.

No probable British prime minister but he who was now in, he who was so soon to be out, would think of making a bishop of Dr.Grantly.Thus he thought long and sadly, in deep silence, and then gazed at that still living face, and then at last dared to ask himself whether he really longed for his father's death.
The effort was a salutary one, and the question was answered in a moment.

The proud, wishful, worldly man sank on his knees by the bedside and, taking the bishop's hand within his own, prayed eagerly that his sins might be forgiven him.
His face was still buried in the clothes when the door of the bedroom opened noiselessly and Mr.Harding entered with a velvet step.