by Katherine Cecil Thurston

Of all the sensations to which the human mind is a prey, there is none so powerful in its finality, so chilling in its sense of an impending event, as the knowledge that Death -- grim, implacable Death -- has cast his shadow on a life that custom and circumstance have rendered familiar. Whatever the personal feeling may be, -- whether dismay, despair, or relief, -- no man or woman can watch that advancing shadow without a quailing at the heart, an individual shrinking from the terrible, natural mystery that we must all face in turn -- each for himself and each alone. 'In a gaunt house on the loneliest point where the Scottish coast overlooks the Irish Sea, John Henderson was watching his uncle die. In the plain whitewashed room where the sick man lay, a fire was burning, and a couple of oil-lamps shed a yellow glow; but outside, the wind roared inland from the shore, and the rain splashed in furious showers against the windows of the house. It was a night of tumult and darkness; but neither the old man who lay waiting for his end, nor the young man who watched that end approaching, gave any heed to the turmoil of the elements.