quieted, and the snow was falling slowly, steadily in big white flakes,
When Dorian again went back to the bedside and looked on the stilled
face of his friend, he gave a little start. He looked again closely,
listening, and feeling of the cold hands. Uncle Zed was dead.

The Greenstreet meeting house was filled to overflowing at the funeral.
Uncle Zed had gone about all his days in the village doing good. All
could tell of some kind deed he had done, with the admonition that it
should not be talked about. He always seemed humiliated when anyone
spoke of these things in his hearing; but now, surely, there could be no
objection to letting his good deeds shine before men.

Uncle Zed had left with the Bishop a written statement, not in the form
of a will, wherein he told what disposition was to be made of his simple
belongings. The house, with its few well tilled acres, was to go to the
ward for the use of any worthy poor whom the Bishop might designate.
Everything in the house should be at the disposal of Dorian Trent. The
books, especially, should belong to him "to have and to hold and to
study." Such books which Dorian did not wish to keep were to be given
to the ward Mutual Improvement Library. This information the Bishop
publicly imparted on the day of the funeral.

"These are the times," said the Bishop, "when the truth comes forcibly
to us all that nothing in this world matters much or counts for much in
the end but good deeds, kind words, and unselfish service to others. All
else is now dross.... The mantle of Brother Zed seems to have fallen on
Dorian Trent. May he wear it faithfully and well."

A few days after the funeral Dorian and his mother went to Uncle Zed's
vacant home. Mrs. Trent examined the furnishings, while Dorian looked