The dying man himself was no longer to be fooled and duped by hope; he knew that he was done for, and he no longer cared. Rather, as if that knowledge had brought him a new strength — the immense and measureless strength that comes from resignation and that has vanquished terror and despair — Gant had already consigned himself to death, and now was waiting for it, without weariness or anxiety, and with a perfect and peaceful acquiescence.

This complete resignation and tranquillity of a man whose life had been so full of violence, protest, and howling fury stunned and silenced them and left them helpless. It seemed that Gant, knowing that often he had lived badly, was now determined to die well. And in this he succeeded. He accepted every ministration, every visit, every stammering reassurance, or frenzied activity, with a passive gratefulness which he seemed to want everyone to know. On the evening of the day after his first h?morrhage, he asked for food and Eliza, bustling out, pathetically eager to do something, killed a chicken and cooked it for him.

And as if, from that infinite depth of death and silence from which he looked at her, he had seen, behind the bridling brisk activity of her figure, for ever bustling back and forth, saying confusedly — “Why, yes! The very thing! This very minute, sir!”— had seen the white strained face, the stricken eyes of a proud and sensitive woman who had wanted affection all her life, had received for the most part injury and abuse, and who was ready to clutch at any crust of comfort that might console or justify her before he died — he ate part of the chicken with relish, and then, looking up at her, said quietly:

“I tell you what — that was a good chicken.”

And Helen, who had been sitting beside him on the bed, and feeding him, now cried out in a tone of bantering and good-humoured challenge:

“What! Is it better than the ones I cook for you? You’d better not say it is — I’ll beat you if you do.’”

And Gant, grinning feebly, shook his head, and answered:

“Ah-h! Your mother is a good cook, Helen. You’re a good cook, too — but there’s no one else can cook a chicken like your mother!”

And stretching out his great right hand, he patted Eliza’s worn fingers with his own.

And Eliza, suddenly touched by that word of unaccustomed praise and tenderness, turned and rushed blindly from the room at a clumsy bridling gait, clasping her hands together at the wrist, her weak eyes blind with tears — shaking her head in a strong convulsive movement, her mouth smiling a pale tremulou............