For a moment it crossed the young clergyman’s mind that he ought to pray aloud, but the thing was dismissed instantly.  It seemed to him impertinent nonsense.  That was not what was required.  It was his business to watch, not to act.

So, little by little, he ceased to think actively, he ceased to consider this and that.  At first he had wondered how long it would be before the doctor and the priest arrived. (The woman had gone to fetch them.) He had wished that they would make haste....  He had wondered what the others felt, and how he would describe it all to his Vicar.  Now, little by little, all this ceased, and the peace grew within and without, till the balance of pressure was equalized and his attention floated at the perfect poise.

Again there was no symbol or analogy that presented itself.  It was not even by negation that he thought.  There was just one positive element that included all:  time seemed to mean nothing, the ticks of the clock with the painted face were scarcely consecutive; it was all one, and distance was nothing, nor nearness—­not even the nearness of the dying face against the pillows....

* * * * *

It was so, then, that something of that state to which Frank had passed communicated itself to at least one of those who saw him die.

A little past the half hour Frank spoke again.

“My love to Whitty,” he said....  “Diary....  Tell him....”

* * * * *

The end came a few minutes before nine o’clock, and it seems to have come as naturally as life itself.  There was no drama, no dying speech, not one word.

Those who were there saw him move ever so slightly in bed, and his head lifted a little.  Then his head sank once more and the Failure was complete.

THE END