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 th…
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