hat are we going to do, Shane?" Paula stared at him, her expression troubled.

"We're going to take this one step at a time, get through each day as best we can," he said confidently. He gave her one of his reassuring smiles. "And we're going to make it."

They sat in her office in the Leeds store. It was an afternoon in the middle of April of 1970. Shane had just returned from a quick trip to Spain, where he had been to supervise the remodeling currently in progress at their Marbella hotel.

Now he edged closer to her on the sofa, put his arm around her, held her tightly in his arms, "Try not to worry so much, darling."

"I can't help it. The situation hasn't improved—it's just worsened. And everything's dragging on interminably. I'm beginning to think I'll never be free of my problems."

"Yes, you will." Moving away, he lifted her face, looked deeply into her eyes. "We've both got innumerable business pressures right now, a load of responsibilities, and we're just going to have to concentrate on those, keep ourselves busy, knowing that ultimately we'll be together. And when we are, it will be for always. Think of the future, Paula, keep your eyes trained on that."

"I try, I do try, Shane, but..," Her voice wavered and stopped. Her eyes filled up.

"Hey, come on, love," he said, "no tears. We've got to keep moving ahead, and purposefully so. I keep telling you, time is on our side. We're both young, and we are going to win in the end."

"Yes." She brushed her eyes with her fingertips, forced a more cheerful expression onto her face. "It's just that—oh, Shane, I miss you so much."

"I know, I know, and I miss you too. It's sheer hell being apart. But look here, I would have to go to New York next week, and then on to Sydney for two months, even if your situation was straightened out. There's no way I can change those circumstances. And it's not been so bad, has it? We were together in New York for part of January and we've managed to grab some time together these past few weeks. So..."

"I can't help feeling that it's not fair to you. I'm keeping you dangling and..."

His laughter obliterated her words. "I love you, and only you. I'll wait for you, Paula." He hugged her fiercely. "What kind of a man do you think I am, you silly, silly girl. None of this is your fault. It's beyond your control. Life intrudes,, that can't be helped. We're just going to have to battle it through."

"I'm sorry, Shane. I am being mournful today, aren't I? Perhaps that's because you'll be leaving in a few days. I feel so desperately alone when you're not in England."

"But you're not alone, Paula. You have me, my love and my support—always. I carry you in my heart wherever I go, and you're never out of my thoughts, not for a single moment. We talk on the telephone practically every day, and if you need me urgently I'll come to you as fast as I can. You know I'd be on the first plane out, whether I'm in Australia or the States." He gazed at her, his black eyes quizzical all of a sudden. "You do know that, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, of course I do."

"Remember what I said to you in Barbados?"

"That I must trust your love for me."

'That's right. As I trust yours for me. Now, are you going to change your mind and come to dinner at Beck House tonight? It II do you good, and Emily was so disappointed when you declined her invitation."

"Perhaps I will, after all." Paula frowned. "Do you think she and Winston suspect anything about us?"

"No way. They believe we've.become good friends again, and that,s all."

Paula was not entirely convinced he was correct. However, she had no wish to implant troublesome ideas in his mind, and she said, "I couldn't get there until eight. I want to go home to see Tessa and Lome, and then I have to go to the nursing home to see Jim."

"I understand."

"You really do, don't you, Shane?"

"Of course, and I wouldn't expect anything less of you, Paula. You're far too good and too compassionate a woman to turn your back on Jim at a time like this. You said over lunch that he was a bit better. What's the general prognosis?"

"The doctor told me yesterday that he could be out of the nursing home in a few weeks, he continues to improve the way hehas. He's not as depressed as he was and he's responding well to treatment, to the psychiatric help." She shook her head and her worry flared up in her. "But you never know with a nervous breakdown. I mean, some people recover quickly, others take months, and it's not unusual for a person to have relapses." She hesitated, murmured in a low, almost inaudible tone, "I can't bring myself to say anything to him just yet—about my freedom."

"I'm aware of that, you don't have to keep repeating yourself," Shane said rapidly, but with gentleness. "We agreed that we must wait until Jim's back to normal, truly capable of handling things, before you tell him you want a divorce. I'm not reneging on our agreement. What else can we do? I'd like to be able to live with myself in the future, and I know you would too."

"Yes. Oh, Shane, thank you, thank you so much for your

understanding, and most of all for your love. I don't know what I'd do without you."

He took her in his arms and kissed her, and they sat holding each other for a few minutes. Finally he released her. "I've got to get back to the office. I've a couple of meetings scheduled, and with Dad in London at the international hotel conference I've got my hands full. Then I want to stop off and see Grandpops on my way home to Beck House."

They rose and she walked him to the door. "Give my love to Uncle Blackie," Paula said, looking up at him. She offered him a brighter smile. "I feel much better—now that I've seen you."

Shane touched her face lightly. "You'll be all right, darling, we'll be all right. Just so long as we stay cool and keep a positive attitude. We mustn't let anything rattle us or throw us off our course."

Several hours later, when Shane pushed open the door of the library in his grandfather's house, he found Blackie standing in front of an antique chest. He had a soft yellow duster in his hand and was carefully rubbing away at the silver trophy which was now his pride and joy.

Shane smiled. If his grandfather polished it once a day, he did so at least half a dozen times. Of all the things Blackie owned, it had become his proudest and most treasured possession. At the beginning of April, Blackie's eight-year-old mare, Emerald Bow, had run at Aintree and had won the Grand National. Winning the greatest steeplechase in the world had been the fulfillment of Blackie's lifelong dream. Curious, though, Shane now thought, that of all the horses he owns it had to be the one Emma gave him which finally won the most coveted prize for him. There has to be something prophetic in that.

Moving forward, Shane said, "Hello, Grandpops, sorry I'm late."

Blackie turned around, his face lighting up. The sight of his handsome, strapping grandson warmed his heart. "Shane, me boy!" he cried and ambled across the floor.

The two men embraced. But as his arms went around his grandfather in a bear hug, Shane realized, with a small shock, that Blackie had lost weight since he had last seen him. My God, I can feel his bones through his suit. He's suddenly become so frail, Shane thought with a spurt of worry mingled with sadness. They drew apart and Shane looked into Blackie's face, his eyes scanning it swiftly. The weight loss was evident in the sunken cheeks, the scrawny neck. His shirt collar looked too big for him, and Blackie was unnaturally pale tonight. His ebony black eyes were cloudy, seemed to have a milky film.

"Are you feeling all right. Grandfather?" Shane asked, his scrutiny fixed on the old man.

"Never felt better."

'That's good to hear," Shane answered, but he reminded himself that his grandfather usually said this. Not wishing to press him further about his health, Shane eyed the cloth in Blackie's hand. "If you're not careful, you're going to nib a hole in that thing with your constant polishing, and then where will you be?"

Blackie snorted in amusement, followed Shane's glance, which was directed at the trophy. He lumbered over to the chest where it reposed, his pace as slow as before. Putting the cloth down, he rested his hand on top of the symbol of Emerald Bow's great triumph.

"I won't go so far as to say that winning this was the crowning moment of my life, but it was certainly the most thrilling." Blackie nodded to himself. "It truly was."

Shane smiled across the room at his grandfather. "And mine too," he asserted.

"Aay, lad, but you're going to have greater triumphs in your life than I've ever had. That's in the cards, sure and it is." Stepping up to the small console, Blackie picked up a crystal decanter and poured whiskey in two glasses. "Let's drink to that foregone conclusion with a drop of me good Irish."

Shane joined him, took the tumbler, clinked it against Blackie's and said, "To future triumphs—for us both, Grandpops."

"Yes, indeed. And to Emerald Bow and next year's Grand National. You never know, she could win again." Blackie shot Shane a knowing look, went over to the fireplace and sat down in his favorite wing chair.

Shane followed him, struck once more by his grandfather's slow gait, which was almost a shuffle, and his fragility. Concern mounted in Shane, but he pressed down on it. Perhaps his grandfather was merely tirea this evening. Also, the excitement

of the Grand National, winning, and all the partying that had ensued might easily have taken its toll. And, after all, he was an

old man, very old now. He was eighty-four years old.

Blackie sat musing to himself for a second or two, gazing into the flames, an abstracted look in his eyes, then he said to his grandson, "I don't think I'll ever forget the finish." Swinging his head, he leaned forward with a burst of energy and eagerness, his glass clasped tightly between his hands, his eyes shining brightly as he relived the race in his mind's eye.

He exclaimed excitedly: "There they were, Shane, coming to the last fence! Emerald Bow with two other big horses alongside her! Almost neck and neck. Steve Lamer, tough little sod that he is, going hell-for-leather. High in the stirrups, pushing her forward, a grim look on his face. Me heart was in me mouth, aye, it was that, Shane. I thought she wasn't going to make it. Sure and I believed one of the other two would beat her to it, if only by a hairsbreadth. When Highland Boy went first, sailed up but hit the top of the fence, rolled over and was out of the race, just like that, well, I couldn't believe me eyes. And then King's Gold went the same way, catapulting over and landing on his back. I knew he'd taken it too close to the roots of the fence. Me old eyes were glued on Emerald Bow. And only a fraction of a second after the others had fallen, there she was, me valiant little mare, jumping the fence like a gazelle and finishing two hundred yards in front of the field. Aye, Shane, it was the most spectacular finish I've ever seen, and I've been to a hell of a lot of horse races during my long life." Blackie's face was flushed, and he fell back against the chair. He was breathless, but recovered himself in a matter of moments.

"I was there, Grandpops. I saw it all, remember." " Blackie winked at him. "Sure you saw it, but I can't help reliving it with you, lad. It gets the blood flowing through me veins again, and you know your father doesn't understand how I feel—not really. It's you, Shane, who has inherited my love of horses, and you've got as good an eye as me when it comes to spotting a thoroughbred."

Blackie paused, and his eyes danced merrily as another thought struck him. "Poor Emma, how she suffered that day, in one way and another. Worrying because I was getting overly excited, concerning herself with thoughts of my disappointment if Emerald Bow lost, and she even got hurt in the process. I grabbed hold of her so hard at the finish she was bruised for days, at least so she tells me. Said I'd almost crushed some of her fragile old bones. Still, she did enjoy it, no two ways about that. And she was as excited as I was. As I still am, if the truth be known."

"And why not, Crandpops, it was a wonderful victory for you, and so well deserved."

Blackie sat back, took a sip of his whiskey. His face sobered and he became reflective. After a moment he said, "Randolph was always right about Emerald Bow, you know, from the day Emma gave her to me. He never stopped telling me she had the stamina required for the National. It's a hard race, bloody carnage, too, when you consider that out of the forty horses that start,'only about eight finish. If that. Thirty fences to jump, and twice over Becher's Brook. So many horses are injured, and it's exhausting for those that last. The stuffing's knocked out of them by the time they're coming into the final stretch."

"The National's also a hell of a fast race," Shane volunteered. "It's over in about ten minutes."

"Aye, it is, it is." Blackie peered at Shane. His expression was one of self-congratulation and gratification. "The party I threw at the Adelphi Hotel after the race was one of the best ever given, so I've been told. It was a grand bash, wasn't it?"

"Smashing! And so was the welcome we received when we got back to Middleham on Sunday lunchtime. The huge banner congratulating Emerald Bow stretched across the main street, the boys coming out of the pubs when you and Randolph paraded her around the town, and then the luncheon at Allington Hall—memorable, all of it. Grandfather. I was so pleased and proud for you, I wouldn't have missed it for anything."

"I know you wouldn't, but still, I admit I was a bit worried when you got bogged down with work in Sydney, early in March. I held my breath, I did indeed. I thought you mightn't make it, and that would have been a severe blow to me, my boy." Blackie sighed and a look of true contentment crossed his face. "It's been a wonderful twelve months when I look back now. The trip around the world with me darlin' Emma, and now this—" He broke off, glanced at the trophy, the smile lingering on his face. "Imagine me winning the greatest race in existence."

"You're not still talking about the Grand National are you?"

Emma exclaimed sharply, walking into the library in her usual brisk way. "We're never going to hear the end of it, I can see."

Laughing, Blackie pushed himself up, went to greet her, kissed her cheek. "Now, mavourneen, don't spoil me bit of fun." He held her away from him and studied her closely. /'Bonny as always, and I see you're wearing my emerald bow." His face filled with genuine pleasure as he gestured to the brooch pinned onto the white-silk shawl collar of her gray wool dress. "I notice you haven't had this off since we won. Now if that's not an emblem of the National, I don't know what is, mavourneen."

Emma laughed, squeezed his arm, turned to Shane as he walked across the floor to join them.

Shane said, "Hello, Aunt Emma, and Grandfather's right, you do look lovely tonight.",He bent forward, kissed her cheek.

"Thank you, Shane. How was the trip to Spain? I see you're keeping that tan of yours going strong."

"I try," he said, grinning. "And the trip was very successful."

Returning to the chair by the fire and drawing Emma along with him, Blackie said, "Shane will get you a drink. What would you like to have, Emma?"

"Sherry, thank you."

"And where's Emily?" Btackie asked. "I thought she was coming in for a drink. Is she parking the car?"

"No. She dropped me off and went on her way. She had to get over to Beck House early. She sends you^her love, and her apologies. Apparently she's cooking dinner for Shane and Winston tonight."

"Oh, I am disappointed not to see her. 1 was looking forward to her visit—I've got a soft spot for young Emily. She always gives me a good chuckle, no one quite as pithy and blunt as Emily—except for you, of course." Blackie reached for a cigar, clipped off the end.

Frowning at him, Emma exclaimed fiercely, "Should you be smoking that thing? You promised me you were going to cut them out." He gave a throaty chuckle, grinned at her. "At my age!" Shrugging,' he went on, "I keep telling you, I'm living on borrowed time. I don't aim to deprive myself of me last few pleasures. This"—he waved the cigar under her nose—"and me drop of whiskey."

Emma let out a long-suffering sigh, knowing there was no use arguing with him.

Shane carried the glass of sherry over to Emma, sat down on the sofa. His grandfather and she had begun to talk about Emily's wedding, which was to take place in two months. He sat back, lit a cigarette, listened, his mind straying to Paula. He worried about her constantly, and even though he presented a patient and understanding demeanor to her, he was extremely anxious for Jim to make a quick recovery from whatever ailed him. And what did ail Fairley? Booze and pills, Shane thought. He was convinced that this lethal combination had contributed to, if not caused, Jim's recent collapse. Emma, Winston, and Emily tended to agree with him, and Paula had confided in January that she thought Jim was an alcoholic.

"Winston tells me you won't be able to be his best man after all," Emma said, drawing Shane into the conversation. "We're so disappointed."

"No more than I am, Aunt Emma. But Dad wants me to go to Sydney again, after I've spent a couple of weeks in New York, and I'll have to remain there through the end of May into June. Nothing much I can do about it—somebody has to supervise the building of the new hotel."

"Yes, so Winston explained."

Shane said, "Michael Kallinski's standing in for me, and I can't think of a better man for the job."

"I hear his father's not been too well," Blackie interjected worriedly. "Have you spoken to Ronnie in the last few days, Emma?"

"Yes, and he's up and about. He's had a bout of pneumonia, but he's feeling much better. This April weather has been most treacherous. So sunny, but the wind has been awfully cold, hasn't it? I've felt nithered to death these last few days."

"That's nothing new," Blackie announced, sitting back, contemplating her fondly. "You suffered from the cold even when you were a slip of a girl. I remember how you used to shiver and complain about being frozen stiff at Fairley Hall."

The two of them were soon engaged in a discussion about the past, which Shane had noticed they were prone to do quite frequently these days. He listened for a while, but when the clock on the mantelpiece struck he glanced at it, saw that it was six-thirty. After stubbing out his cigarette and downing the last drops of his drink, he stood up. "I'm going to push off, leave you two lovebirds to your own devices. Don't do anything I wouldn't do, Grandpops."

"That gives me a lot of rope then," Blackie retorted, winking broadly.

"Several hundred yards at least," Shane answered, his tone jocular. He bent over the chair and kissed his grandfather in the tenderest way, touched his shoulder. "Take it easy, and I'll come and see you tomorrow."

"Yes, please do, my boy. I'll be looking forward to it, and have a nice evening."

"Thanks, I will, Grandpops." Shane stepped over to Emma. He thought how pretty she was despite her grand age. After kissing her, he said, "Keep an eye on this old warrior for me, Aunt Emma. I know he's a handful—but, then, you've had his number for years."

The look Emma gave Shane was full of love. "I will."

"Humph!" Blackie's eyes traveled from Emma to Shane. "And don't think I haven't got her number. I've always had. it!"

Their laughter followed Shane as he walked to the door. He looked back over his shoulder as he went out, saw that they were already contentedly chatting away, retreating into their own private world, sharing their memories. He closed the door softly behind him.

Blackie glanced at the door, leaned forward, and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Do you think Shane's still leading a wild life and chasing fast women, like he used to do, Emma?"

"No, I don't," Emma reassured. "I'm perfectly sure he doesn't have time for that, Blackie dear, not the way he works."

"Everyone's getting married and he's still single. And at twenty-eight," Blackie complained, sounding unusually fretful. "I'd hoped to see him settled down before I died, but it doesn't look as if I will. No chance of bouncing his babies on my knee."

Emma threw him a chastising look, clucked softly, said, "Of course there is, you silly old thing. What's got into you tonight? You're the one who's forever telling me you're going to live to be ninety."

"Ah, I've grave doubts about that, mavoumeen."

Ignoring this comment, Emma hurried on, "Shane will settle down, but only when he's good and ready."

"Aye, I suppose so." Blackie moved his great white leonine head from side to side. A look of helplessness spread across his face. "This generation—I don't know, Emma, they baffle me at times. They make such messes of their lives, or so it seems to me."

Emma froze in her chair, watching him closely, her eyes growing sharper. Was he generalizing or was he referring to anyone in particular? Surely he had not guessed about Shane's feelings for Paula. She said: "Were we any different? Our generation was just as bad, Blackie dear."

He was silent.

"Think about it—you'll have to agree that I'm correct, you know that." She smiled and her shrewd green eyes danced. "Now who made a bigger mess than me at different times in her life?"

He had to laugh. "That's true. And here I am, going on about Shane, and I haven't even asked you how Paula is faring. Is she all right?"

"Coping, poor girl. She does seem to have her hands full at the moment. However, Jim is on the mend, I think. I sincerely hope he is, for their sakes. She's been worried to death about him, and so have I."

"I was about to ask you about Jim." Blackie gave her an odd look and there was a small pause before he asked, "How long is he going to have to stay in the mental asylum?"

"Psychiatric clinic," Emma corrected. "About another month, maybe six weeks."

"That long! Oh dear, Emma, that is a terrible burden for Paula." He rubbed his chin, gave her a piercing stare. "He will get better, won't he?"

"Of course!" Emma said in her most positive voice, but she couldn't help asking herself if he would. Her mind strayed to his family's troubled history.

As if he had read her thoughts, Blackie reflected out loud, "A funny family, the Fairleys." He looked at her again and for the longest moment. "Adele Fairley used to seem a shade demented to me... the way she wandered around Fairley Hall like an apparition. And then there was the dreadful way she died. Tragic. I can't help thinking that this illness of Jim's might be—"

"I'd prefer not to contemplate something like that, if you don't mind, dear," Emma said firmly. "It's all too depressing and worrying for everyone concerned."

Leaning forward, Emma now smiled her most winning smile and changed the subject. "You and I agreed that we wouldn't go gallivanting off again, but I was wondering if you'd like to come and stay with me at my house in the South of France? This summer, Blackie, perhaps in the middle of June, after Emily's wedding, and before Alexander's in July. What do you think?"

"That is a tempting idea. These old bones of mine could use a bit of warming sunshine. Like you, I've been feeling the bite of the northern wind this past week or so. To tell you the truth, I thought I was coming down with the flu."

"Aren't you feeling well?" Emma's quick darting glance betrayed her concern for him.

"On, sure and I am, me darlin'. Don't be fussing over me, Emma, you know I've never been able to stand that." His wide Celtic mouth curved up in a smile of tenderness. "Let's face it, we're not spring chickens anymore. We're both very old now." He chuckled, eyeing her in amusement, his eyes suddenly teasing. "Two bags of ancient bones, that's what we are, Emma."

"Speak for yourself," she retorted, but her expression was as loving as his.

They were interrupted by Mrs. Padgett, Blackie's housekeeper, who came in to tell them that dinner was served.

As they walked across the library and out into the lovely circular entrance hall, Emma noticed, as Shane had done earlier, that Blackie's steps were belabored this evening. She had to slow her own pace so that he could keep up with her, and this troubled her deeply.

During dinner she realized that he was picking at his food, not really eating. He seemed to have no appetite, and he hardly touched his glass of red wine, which was most unusual. But she made no comment, deciding instead that she would take matters into her own hands. Tomorrow she would telephone Doctor Hedley, ask him to drive over to give Blackie a thorough examination.

For a short while Blackie talked about the Grand National, and Emma let him ramble on, knowing how important winning had been to him. But at one moment he unexpectedly dropped this subject when he said, "It's always seemed strange to me that Shane was never interested in one of your girls, Emma. There was a time, when they were growing up, that I thought he and Paula might end up marrying each other... one day."

Emma held her breath. For a split second she was on the verge of confiding in him, and then instantly changed her mind. It would only distress him if he knew about Shane's love for her granddaughter. Particularly since she had now come to the conclusion that Paula did not reciprocate Shane's feelings. Blackie would not be able to bear the thought of Shane's heartache.

Emma leaned over and patted his hand lying on the table. "I suppose being together all of their lives makes them feel like brother and sister."

"Aye, most probably, but it would've been lovely if they'd married, wouldn't it, me darlin'?"

"Oh yes, Blackie, it would have been wonderful."

As they left the dining room, Mrs. Padgett reminded Blackie she was taking the rest of the evening off, and bid them good night. Slowly he and Emma walked back through.the hall and went into the library. Emma poured a cognac for him, a liqueur glass of Bonnie Prince Charlie for herself.

They sat in silence for a.while, sipping their drinks, lost in their own contemplations, as companionable tonight as they had been all of their lives. But eventually Blackie roused himself. "Don't you think it would be nice to play some records, Emma? Listen to a few old tunes, the ones we used to love."

"What a good idea." Emma rose and went over to the small cabinet that housed the stereo, looked through the stack of records. "My goodness, I didn't know you still had this... that John McCormack selection of old Irish ballads I gave you years ago. Shall I put it on?"

"Aye, why not." Blackie gave her a small grin as she returned to her chair, boasted, "I still have a good voice you know. I'll sing along with the music, if you like."

"I always did love that-rich baritone of yours."

They listened to the selection and, true to his word, Blackie did sing a few snatches of the old songs now and then, but his voice was feeble and quavering, and so he mostly hummed the melodies.

When the record came to an end, Emma remarked, "Those songs bring back a lot of memories... especially 'Danny Boy.' I'll never forget that night I came looking for you, after I'd run away from Fairley Hall. I found you at the Mucky Duck, singing that ballad as if your life depended on it. Oh, Blackie, you looked so marvelous, standing there next to the piano, and, goodness.me, you were so theatrical. A real ham."

He smiled.

Emma's eyes rested on him affectionately, took in the wavy hair, still thick but white as driven snow, the craggy features, the broad face marked by the signs of age, and suddenly, in her imagination, she saw him as he had been in his youth, as he had looked that night in the pub. Vibrant black curls rippling back from a tanned face, black eyes dancing, white teeth flashing between rosy lips, his superb looks prominently highlighted in the glare from the burning gas lamps.

Leaning forward, Emma asked, "Do you remember that particular night, Blackie?"

"How could I ever forget it, Emma? We went and sat together in the Saloon Bar and you drank a lemonade. I had a pint of bitter. Ah, such a little snippet of a lass you were... and you told me you were pregnant... and I asked you to marry me. Perhaps you should have."

"Yes, perhaps. But I didn't want to burden you..." Emma did not finish, and she picked up her liqueur, took a sip.

Blackie settled back in his chair, a faint smile playing around his mouth, and then he nodded to himself, said, "You do look bonny tonight, Emma. You're the most fetching colleen in the whole county."

"You're prejudiced," she murmured, returning his unwavering gaze, his gentle smile.

Blackie sat up a little straighter, peering across at her in the soft dim glow of the muted light in the room. "I'll never be able to tell you what our holiday has meant to me, Emma. Those eight months with you have made up for all the bad things that ever happened to me in my entire life—the pain, the heartache, the sorrow. And I do thank you, me darlin'."

"What a lovely thing to say, Blackie. But it is I who should thank you for making your Plan with a capital P."

"It was a good plan—"Blackie stopped short and grimaced.

Instantly Emma was on her feet, leaning over him. "What's the matter? Are you ill?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing... just a twinge of indigestion."

"I m going to ring the doctor, and then I'm going to get you upstairs to bed." She turned away from him, made a movement toward the desk near the window.

"No, no." He tried to restrain her but his hand fell away weakly. "I won't make it, Emma."

"Yes, you will," she insisted. "I'll help you.'

Blackie shook his head very slowly.

"I am going to telephone Doctor Hedley," Emma an-.nounced with a show of her old firmness.

"Sit down here with me, Emma. Please," he begged. "Just for a minute or two."

Emma pulled up a hassock, seated herself, took his hand in hers, searched his face. "What is it, Blackie?"

He'squeezed her fingers, then smiled at her. Suddenly his eyes opened very wide. "All my life," he whispered hoarsely, "I've known you all my life. We've been through so much together, Emma."

"Yes," she said, "we have and I don't know what I'd have done without you, Blackie."

He sighed a very long, slow sigh. "I'm sorry to have to leave you alone. So very sorry, mavoumeen."

Emma could not speak. Tears rushed into her eyes, fell down her wrinkled cheeks, splashed over the white silk collar and the emerald bow, and onto their entwined hands.

Blackie's eyes widened again, and he stared at her more acutely, as if memorizing her face. And then he said in a surprisingly clear voice, "I've always loved you, me darlin'."

"And I have always loved you, Blackie."

A fleeting smile struck his pale mouth. His eyelids fluttered, closed, lay still. His head fell to one side. His hand went slack in her tenacious grip.

"Blackie," she said. "Blackie!"

The silence overwhelmed her.

She held on to his hand tightly, closing her eyes. The tears seeped out from under her old lids, ran down her face in streaming rivulets. She lowered her head and rested it on their clasped hands, drenching them with her tears.

"Good-bye, my dearest friend, good-bye," she said at last. She continued to weep quietly, unable to stem the tears, and, she sat there for a long time, her aching heart full of love for him.

But eventually she lifted her head, let go of his hand, and pushed herself up onto her feet."She bent over him, gently smoothed his snow-white hair back from his forehead, and kissed his icy lips. How cold he is, she thought.

Emma's pace was slow and her step faltering as she moved.blindly toward his chair near the window, where he had so often sat lately looking out at his garden. She took the small wool blanket patterned with the tartan of the Seaforth Highlanders and brought it to him and covered his'legs and tucked it around him.

And then at the same snail's crawl she went to his desk. She lifted the phone and with trembling hands dialed Beck House.

It was Shane who answered. "Hello?" he said.

On hearing his strong and.vibrant tone her tears began to flow once more. "It's Blackie," Emma said through her tears, in a voice that shook. "He's gone... Please come, Shane."

Shane arrived within the hour, bringing Paula, Emily, and Winston with him.

They found her sitting on the hassock next to Blackie, her hand resting on his knee, her silver head bowed. She did not turn nor did she move.at all, merely went on sitting there, staring into the fire.

Shane hurried to her, put his hand on her shoulder lightly, brought his face to hers. "I'm here, Aunt Emma," he said in the kindest of voices.

She made no response.

Shane took her hands in his and brought her to her feet slowly, gentleness flowing out of him.

Emma finally lifted her face to look up into his, and she began to xvee'p and Shane took her in his arms and held her close, soothing her.

"I miss him already and he's only just died," Emma said with a small heartbreaking sob. "Whatever am I going to do without Blackie?"

"Hush, Aunt Emma, hush," Shane murmured and then he led her over to the sofa, motioning with his eyes to Paula, who stood in the doorway white-faced and trembling. She came and sat with her grandmother, began to -comfort her, and Emily joined them.

Shane stepped over to Blackie. His throat was thick with emotion and the sorrow rose in him and tears ran down his cheeks. He gazed at Blaclde's face and saw how peaceful it was in death; and then he leaned forward and kissed his withered cheek.

"Godspeed, Grandfather," he said in a low and saddened voice. "Godspeed."