A lamp was burning, but the fire-light was stronger.
Mark spoke. In a moment the major was bending over him.
"Majie," he said, "I want Corney. I want to tell him."
The major, on his way to Corney, told the father that the end was nigh.
With sorely self-accusing heart, for the vision of the boy on the stone
in the middle of the moor haunted him, he repaired to the anteroom of
heaven.
Mark kept looking for Corney's coming, his eyes turning every other
moment to the door. When his father entered he stretched out his arms to
him. The strong man bending over him could not repress a sob. The boy
pushed him gently away far enough to see his face, and looked at him as
if he could not quite believe his eyes.
"Father," he said--he had never called him _father_ before--"you
must be glad, not sorry. I am going to your father and my father--to our
great father."
Then seeing Corney come in, he stretched his arms towards him past his
father, crying, "Corney! Corney!" just as he used to call him when he
was a mere child. Corney bent over him, but the outstretched arms did
not close upon him; they fell.
But he was not yet ascended.
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