There was no demonstration of grief.The Duke was in command, and his quiet, firm voice, giving directions, helped all to self-control.The women who were gathered in the middle room were weeping quietly.Bill was nowhere to be seen, but near the inner door sat Gwen in her chair, with Lady Charlotte beside her, holding her hand.Her face, worn with long suffering, was pale, but serene as the morning sky, and with not a trace of tears.As my eye caught hers, she beckoned me to her.
"Where's Bill?" she said."Bring him in."I found him at the back of the house.
"Aren't you coming in, Bill?" I said.
"No; I guess there's plenty without me," he said, in his slow way.
"You'd better come in; the service is going to begin," I urged.
"Don't seem as if I cared for to hear anythin' much.I ain't much used to preachin', anyway," said Bill, with careful indifference, but he added to himself, "except his, of course.""Come in, Bill," I urged."It will look queer, you know," but Bill replied:
"I guess I'll not bother," adding, after a pause: "You see, there's them wimmin turnin' on the waterworks, and like as not they'd swamp me sure.""That's so," said Hi, who was standing near, in silent sympathy with his friend's grief.
I reported to Gwen, who answered in her old imperious way, "Tell him I want him." I took Bill the message.
"Why didn't you say so before?" he said, and, starting up, he passed into the house and took up his position behind Gwen's chair.
Opposite, and leaning against the door, stood The Duke, with a look of quiet earnestness on his handsome face.At his side stood the Hon.Fred Ashley, and behind him the Old Timer, looking bewildered and woe-stricken.The Pilot had filled a large place in the old man's life.The rest of the men stood about the room and filled the kitchen beyond, all quiet, solemn, sad.
In Gwen's room, the one farthest in, lay The Pilot, stately and beautiful under the magic touch of death.And as I stood and looked down upon the quiet face I saw why Gwen shed no tear, but carried a look of serene triumph.She had read the face aright.
The lines of weariness that had been growing so painfully clear the last few months were smoothed out, the look of care was gone, and in place of weariness and care, was the proud smile of victory and peace.He had met his foe and was surprised to find his terror gone.
The service was beautiful in its simplicity.The minister, The Pilot's chief, had come out from town to take charge.He was rather a little man, but sturdy and well set.His face was burnt and seared with the suns and frosts he had braved for years.Still in the prime of his manhood, his hair and beard were grizzled and his face deep-lined, for the toils and cares of a pioneer missionary's life are neither few nor light.But out of his kindly blue eye looked the heart of a hero, and as he spoke to us we felt the prophet's touch and caught a gleam of the prophet's fire.
