on his soul"—in his habit as he lived—and died. He saw the end descending, a pall striped with blood, and he heard again the distant pipes that had shrieked, "The Campbells are coming, O ho! O ho!" That was looking back many years. He looked back further, and came out to India again, in a sailing-ship, a brave, bright-cheeked boy, full of hope and conscientiousness. He had been brave and steadfast, a little part of history—a great failure. There are two kinds of admirables—the hard-working successes and the hard-working failures. The old gentleman belonged to the second class. But now he had done with it all—the hope and the bitterness, even the hard working. He was going back to the land of flowery hedges and delightful meadows; that was all that mattered to him. He was going away from the land of his unsuccess—going home, to look on a green field of England, and die. He spoke to the towering young man at his side.
"I have seen great doings in India, sir," he said—"great doings."
