They had a week’s conflict with the last dread enemy of man, and they lost.  Dr. Barrington was quite as much aware of the significance of his steady decline as any one.  He had practical, quiet, encouraging talks with his daughter.  He sent for an attorney and secured his property to her.  Once more, as in his brighter days, he talked of important matters, though no longer with his old arrogance.  He seemed to comprehend at last, fully and proudly, that she was the inheritor of the best part of him.  Her excursive spirit, her inquisitive mind, were, after all, in spite of all differences, his gift to her.  He gave her his good wishes and begged her to follow whatever forces had been leading her.  It was as if, in his weakness, he had sunk for a period into something resembling childhood and had emerged from it into a newer, finer manhood.

“I kept abreast of things in my profession,” he said, “but in other matters I was obstinate.  I liked the old way—­a man at the helm, and the crew answering his commands.  No matter how big a fool the man was, I still wanted him at the helm.”  He smiled at her brightly.  There was, indeed, a sort of terrible brilliancy about him, the result, perhaps, of heroic artificial stimulation.  But these false fires soon burned themselves out.  One beautiful Sunday morning they found him sinking.  He himself informed his physician that it was his day of transition.

“I’ve only an hour or two more, Hudson,” he whispered cheerfully.  “Feel that pulse!”

“Oh, we may manage to keep you with us some time yet, Dr. Barrington,” said the other with a professional attempt at optimism.

But the older man shook his head.

“Let’s not bother with the stock phrases,” he said.  “Ask my daughter to come.  I’d like to look at her till the last.”

So Kate sat where he could see her, and they coaxed the fluttering heart to yet a little further effort.  Dr. Barrington supervised everything; counted his own pulse; noted its decline with his accustomed accuracy.

The sunlight streamed into the room through the tall shafts of trees; outside the sighing of the pines was heard, rising now and then to a noble requiem.  It lifted Kate’s soul on its deep harmonies, and she was able to bear herself with fortitude.

“It’s been so sweet to be with you, dear,” she murmured in the ears which were growing dull to earthly sounds.  “Say that I’ve made up to you a little for my willfulness.  I’ve always loved you—­always.”

“I know,” he whispered.  “I understand—­everything—­now!”

In fact, his glance answered hers with full comprehension.

“The beat is getting very low now, Doctor,” he murmured, the fingers of his right hand on his left wrist; “very infrequent—­fifteen minutes more—­”

Dr. Hudson tried to restrain him from his grim task of noting his own sinking vitality, but the old physician waved him off.

“It’s very interesting,” he said.  It seemed so, indeed.  Suddenly he said quite clearly and in a louder voice than he had used that day:  “It has stopped.  It is the end!”