In July, 1910, he was dying of heart failure.
Nevertheless the return of David, his well-beloved, brought to him a flicker of renewed life, a little pink in the cheeks, and some garrulity.
He could hardly bear his darling son out of his sight, except for the narrowest margin of necessary sleep; and often David slept sitting up in an arm-chair in the Vicar's bedroom.

The Revd.

Howel said nothing more about grandchildren; often--with a finer sense--spoke to him not as though he were a son, but as a beloved daughter.

At last he died in his sleep one night, holding David's hand, looking so ineffably happy that the impostor inwardly gloried in his imposture as in one of the best deeds of his chequered life.
* * * * * The will, of course, had not been changed, and David inherited all his "father's" property.

Out of it he settled L500 on the miner's--or rather Jenny's--son who probably _was_ the offspring of the real David Williams's boyish amour.