The thing was occurring in the very next room, yet Angus Mackenzie could not believe it. The solid fact stunned and bewildered him. It seemed impossible that his father, Red Mackenzie of the North, could so softly steal away from life. His heart, his old Scotch heart, was failing at last—so the nurse had reported. Still his son would not give up hope. Surely the old fighter would arise, scatter the gathering shadows, and wrench free from the hands that were pulling him down.
But Angus Mackenzie was building in vain. The old man’s journey was almost done. The medical diagnosis was correct, and in a few hours, perhaps a few minutes, a certain valve in his heart would give way under a steadily growing strain. Red Mackenzie would not return, as he had intended, to lie under Scottish skies. Th
