The east wind had been swept aside by gales from the warm south, and the spring was bursting out everywhere; the sky looked softly blue, instead of hard and chill; the sun made everything glisten: the hedges were full of catkins; white buds were on the purple twigs of the blackthorns; primroses were looking out on the sunny side of the road; the larks were mounting up, singing as if they were wild with delight; and the sunbeams were full of dancing gnats, as the Curate of Friarswood walked, with quick eager steps, towards the bridge.

His eyes were anxiously bent on the house, watching the white smoke rising from the chimney; then he hastened on to gain the first sight at the upper windows, feeling almost as he could have done had it been a brother who lay there; so much was his heart set on the first whom he had striven to help through the valley of the shadow of death. The window was open, but the blind was not drawn; and almost at the same moment the gate opened, some one looked out, and seeing him, waved his hand and arm in joyful signal towards some one within, and this gesture set Mr. Cope’s heart at rest.

Was it Harold? No, it was Paul Blackthorn, who stood leaning on the wicket, as he held it open for the clergyman, at whom he looked up as if expecting some change, and a little surprised to find the same voice and manner.

‘Well, Paul, then he is not worse?’

‘No, Sir, thank you, he is better. The pain has left him, and he can speak again,’ said Paul, but not very cheerfully.

‘That is a great comfort! But who’s that?’ as a head, not Ellen’s, appeared for a moment at the window.

‘That’s Miss King, Sir—Miss Matilda!’

‘Oh! Well, and how are the bones, Paul? Better, I hope, since I see you are come out with the bees,’ said Mr. Cope, laying his hand kindly on his shoulder (a thing fit to touch now, since it was in a fustian coat of poor Alfred’s), and accommodating his swift strong steps to the feeble halt with which Paul still moved.

‘Thank you, Sir, yes; I’ve been down here twice when the sun was out,’ he said, as if it were a grand undertaking; but then, with a sudden smile, ‘and poor CÆsar knew me, Sir; he came right across the road, and wagged his tail, and licked my hand.’

‘Good old CÆsar! You were his best friend, Paul.—Well, Mrs. King, this is a blessing!’

Mrs. King looked sadly worn out with nursing, and her eyes were full of tears.

‘Yes, Sir,’ she said, ‘indeed it is. My poor darling has been so much afraid he was too much set on your coming home, and yet so patient and quiet about it.’

‘Then you ventured to wait?’

And Mr. Cope heard that the attack of inflammation had given way to remedies, but that Alfred was so much weakened, that they could not raise him again. He was sustained by as much nourishment as they could give him: but the disease had made great progress, and Mr. Blunt did not think that he could last many days. His eldest sister had come for a fortnight from her place, and was a great comfort to them all. ‘And so is Paul,’ said Mrs. King, looking for him kindly; ‘I don’t know what we should do without his help up-stairs and down. And, Sir, yesterday,’ she added, colouring a good deal—‘I beg your pardon, but I thought, maybe, you’d like to hear it—Alfred would have nobody else up with him in morning church-time—and made him read the most—of that Service, Sir.’

Mr. Cope’s eyes glistened, and he said something huskily of being glad that Alfred could think of it.

It further appeared that Alfred had wished very much to see Miss Selby again, and that Mrs. King had sent the two sisters to the Grange to talk it over with Mrs. Crabbe, and word had been sent by Harold that morning that the young lady would come in the course of the afternoon.

Mr. Cope followed Mrs. King up-stairs; Alfred’s face lighted up as his sister Matilda made way for the clergyman. He was very white, and his breath was oppressed; but his look had changed very much—it had a strange, still sort of brightness and peace about it. He spoke in very low tones, just above a whisper, and smiled as Mr. Cope took his hand, and spoke to him.

‘Thank you, Sir. It is very nice,’ he said.

‘I thank God that He has let you wait for me,’ said Mr. Cope.

‘I am glad,’ said Alfred. ‘I did want to pray for it; but I thought, perhaps, if it was not His Will, I would not—and then what you said. And now He is making it all happy.’

‘And you do not grieve over your year of illness?’

‘I would not have been without it—no,’ said Alfred, very quietly, but with much meaning.

‘“It is good for me that I have been in trouble,” is what you mean,’ said Mr. Cope.

‘It has made our Saviour seem—I mean—He is so good to me,’ said Alfred fervently.

But talking made him cough, and that brought a line in the fair forehead so full of peace. Mr. Cope would not say more to him, and asked his mother whether the Feast, for which he had so much longed, should be on the following day. She thought it best that it should be so; and Alfred again said, ‘Thank you, Sir,’ with the serene expression on his face. Mr. Cope read a Psalm and a prayer to him, and thinking him equal to no more, went away, pausing, however, for a little talk with Paul in the shop.

Paul did not say so, but, poor fellow, he had been rather at a loss since Matilda had come. In herself, she was a very good, humble, sensible girl; but she wore a dark silk dress, and looked, moved, and spoke much more like a lady than Ellen: Paul stood in great awe of her, and her presence seemed all at once to set him aloof from the others.

He had been like one of themselves for the last three months, now he felt that he was like a beggar among them; he did not like to call Mrs. King mother, lest it should seem presuming; Ellen seemed to be raised up the same step as her sister, and even Alfred was almost out of his reach; Matilda read to him, and Paul’s own good feeling shewed him that he would be only in the way if he spent all his time in Alfred’s room as formerly; so he kept down-stairs in the morning, and went to bed very early. Nobody was in the least unkind to him: but he had just begun to grieve at being a burden so long, and to wonder how much longer he should be in getting his health again. And then it might be only to be cast about the world, and to lose his one glimpse of home kindness. Poor boy! he still cried at the thought of how happy Alfred was.

He did all he could to be useful, but he could scarcely manage to stoop down, could carry nothing heavy, and moved very slowly; and he now and then made a dreadful muddle in the shop, when a customer was not like Mrs. Hayward, who told him where everything was, and the price of all she wanted, as well as Mrs. King could do herself. He could sort the letters and see to the post-office very well; and for all his blunders, he did so much by his good-will, that when Mrs. King wanted to cheer him up, she declared that he saved her all the expense of having in a woman from the village to help, and that he did more about the house than Harold.

This was true: for Harold did not like doing anything but manly things, as he called them; whereas Paul did not care what it was, so that it saved trouble to her or Ellen.

Talking and listening to Harold was one use of Paul. Now that it had come upon him, and he saw Alfred worse from day to day, the poor boy was quite broken-hearted. Possibly, when at his work, or riding, he managed to shake off the remembrance; but at home it always came back, and he cried so much at the sight of Alfred, and at any attempt of his brother to talk to him, that they could scarcely let him stay ten minutes in the room. Then, when Paul had gone to bed on the landing at seven o’clock, he would come and sit on his bed, and talk, and cry, and sob about his brother, and his own carelessness of him, often till his mother came out and ordered him down-stairs to his own bed in the kitchen; and Paul turned his face into the pillow to weep himself to sleep, loving Alfred very little less than did his brother, but making less noise about it, and feeling very lonely when he saw how all the family cared for each other.

So Mr. Cope’s kind manner came all the more pleasantly to him; and after some talk on what they both most cared about, Mr. Cope said, ‘Paul, Mr. Shaw of Berryton tells me he has a capital school-master, but in rather weak health, and he wants to find a good intelligent youth to teach under him, and have opportunities of improving himself. Five pounds a year, and board and lodgings. What do you think of it, Paul?’

Paul’s sallow face began growing red, and he polished the counter, on which he was leaning; then, as Mr. Cope repeated, ‘Eh, Paul?’ he said slowly, and in his almost rude way, ‘They wouldn’t have me if they knew how I’d been brought up.’

‘Perhaps they would if they knew what you’ve come to in spite of bringing up. And,’ added Mr. Cope, ‘they are not so much pressed for time but that they can wait till you’ve quite forgotten your tumble into the Ragglesford. We must fatten you—get rid of those spider-fingers, and you and I must do a few more lessons together—and I think Mrs. King has something towards your outfit; and by Whitsuntide, I told Mr. Shaw that I thought I might send him what I call a very fair sample of a good steady lad.’

Paul did not half seem to take it in—perhaps he was too unhappy, or it sounded like sending him away again; or, maybe, such a great step in life was more than he could comprehend, after the outcast condition to which he had been used: but Mr. Cope could not go on talking to him, for the Grange carriage was stopping at the gate, and Matilda and Ellen were both coming down-stairs to receive Miss Jane. Poor little thing, she looked very pale and nervous; and as she shook hands with the Curate, as he met her in the garden-path, she said with a startled manner, ‘Oh! Mr. Cope—were you there? Am I interrupting—?’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I had only called in as I came home, and had just come down again.’

‘Is it—is it very dreadful?’ murmured Jane, with a sort of gasp. She was so entirely unused to scenes of sadness or pain, that it was very strange and alarming to her, and it was more difficult than ever to believe her no younger than Ellen.

‘Very far from dreadful or distressing,’ said Mr. Cope kindly, for he knew it was not her fault that she had been prevented from overcoming such feelings, and that this was a great effort of kindness. ‘It is a very peaceful, soothing sight—he is very happy, and not in a suffering state.’

‘Oh, will you tell Grandmamma?’ said Jane, with her pretty look of earnestness; ‘she is so much afraid of its much for me, and she was so kind in letting me come.’

So Miss Selby went on to the two sisters, and Mr. Cope proceeded to the carriage, where Lady Jane had put out her head, glad to be able to ask him about the state of affairs. Having nothing but this little grand-daughter left to her, the old lady watched over her with almost over-tender care, and was in much alarm both lest the air of the sick-room should be unwholesome, or the sight too sorrowful for her; and though she was too kind to refuse the wish of the dying boy, she had come herself, in order that ‘the child,’ as she called her, might not stay longer than was good for her; and she was much relieved to hear Mr. Cope’s account of Alfred’s calm state, and of the freshness of the clean room, in testimony of which he pointed to the open window.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I hope Mary King was wise enough; but I hardly knew how it might be with such a number about the house—that boy and all. He is not gone, is he?’

‘No, he is not nearly well enough yet, though he does what he can to be useful to her. When he is recovered, I have a scheme for him.’

So Mr. Cope mentioned Mr. Shaw’s proposal, by which my Lady set more store than did Paul as yet. Very kind-hearted she was, though she did not fancy adopting chance-comers into her parish; and as long as he was not saddled upon Mary King, as she said, she was very glad of any good for him; so she told Mr. Cope to come to her for what he might want to fit him out properly for the situation; and turning her keen eyes on him as he stood near the cottage door, pronounced that, after all, he was a nice, decent-looking lad enough, which certainly her Ladyship would not have said before his illness.

Miss Jane did not stay long. Indeed, Alfred could not talk to her, and she did not know what to say to him; she could only stand by his bed, with the tears upon her cheeks, making little murmuring sounds in answer to Mrs. King, who said for her son what she thought he wished to have said. Meanwhile, Jane was earnestly looking at him, remarking with awe, that, changed as he was since she had last seen him—so much more wasted away—the whole look of his face was altered by the gentleness and peace that it had gained, so as to be like the white figure of a saint.

She could not bear it when Mrs. King told her Alfred wanted to thank her for all her kindness in coming to see him. ‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘I was not kind at all;’ and her tears would not be hindered. ‘Only, you know, I could not help it.’

Alfred gave her a bright look. Any one could see what a pleasure it was to him to be looking at her again, though he did not repent of his share in the sacrifice for Paul’s sake. No, if Paul had been given up that Miss Jane might come to him, Alfred would not have had the training that made all so sweet and calm with him now. He turned his head to the little picture, and said, ‘Thank you, Ma’am, for that. That’s been my friend.’

‘Yes, indeed it has, Miss Jane,’ said his mother. ‘There’s nothing you ever did for him that gave him the comfort that has been.’

‘And please, Ma’am,’ said Alfred, ‘will you tell my Lady—I give her my duty—and ask her pardon for having behaved so bad—and Mrs. Crabbe—and the rest?’

‘I will, Alfred; but every one has forgiven that nonsense long ago.’

‘It was very bad of me,’ said Alfred, pausing for breath; ‘and so it was not to mind you—Miss Jane—when you said I was ill for a warning.’

‘Did I?’ said Jane.

‘Yes—in hay-time—I mind it—I didn’t mind for long—but ’twas true. He had patience with me.’

The cough came on, and Jane knew she must go; her grandmother had bidden her not to stay if it were so, and she just ventured to squeeze Alfred’s hand, and then went down-stairs, checking her tears, to wish Matilda and Ellen good-bye; and as she passed by Paul, told him not to uncover his still very short-haired head, and kindly hoped he was better.

Paul, in his dreary feelings, hardly thought of Mr. Cope’s plan, till, as he was getting the letters ready for Harold, he turned up one in Mr. Cope’s writing, addressed to the ‘Rev. A. Shaw, Berryton, Elbury.’

‘That’s to settle for me, then,’ he said; and Harold who was at tea, asking, ‘What’s that?’ he explained.

‘Well,’ said Harold, ‘every one to his taste! I wouldn’t go to school again, not for a hundred pounds; and as to keeping school!’ (Such a face as he made really caused Paul to smile.) ‘Nor you don’t half like it, neither,’ continued Harold. ‘Come, you’d better stay and get work here! I’d sooner be at the plough-tail all day, than poke out my eyes over stuff like that,’ pointing to Paul’s slate, covered with figures. ‘Here, Nelly,’ as she moved about, tidying the room, ‘do you hear? Mr. Cope’s got an offer of a place for Paul—five pounds a year, and board and lodging, to be school-master’s whipper-in, or what d’ye call it?’

‘What do you say, Harold?’ cried Ellen, putting her hands on the back of a chair, quite interested. ‘You going away, Paul?’

‘Mr. Cope says so—and I must get my living, you know,’ said Paul.

‘But not yet; you are not well enough yet,’ said the kind girl. ‘And where did you say—?’

‘To Berryton.’

‘Berryton—oh! that’s just four miles out on the other side of Elbury, where Susan Congleton went to live that was housemaid at the Grange. She says it’s such a nice place, and such beautiful organ and singing at church! And what did you say you were to be, Paul?’

‘I’m to help the school-master.’

‘Gracious me!’ cried Ellen. ‘Why, such a scholar as you are, you’ll be quite a gentleman yet, Paul. Why, they school-masters get fifty or sixty pounds salaries sometimes. I protest it’s the best thing I’ve heard this long time! Was it Mr. Cope’s doing, or my Lady’s?’

‘Mr. Cope’s,’ said Paul, beginning to think he had been rather less grateful than he ought.

‘Ah! it is like him,’ said Ellen, ‘after all the pains he has taken with you. And you’ll not be so far off, Paul: you’ll come to see us in the holidays, you know.’

‘To be sure he will,’ said Harold; ‘or if he don’t, I shall go and fetch him.’

‘Of course he will,’ said Ellen, with her hand on Paul’s chair, and speaking low and affectionately to console him, as she saw him so downcast; ‘don’t you know how poor Alfy says he’s come to be instead of a son to Mother, and a brother to us? I must go up and tell Alf and mother. They’ll be so pleased.’

Paul felt very differently about the plan now. All the house congratulated him upon it, and Matilda evidently thought more of him now that she found he was to have something to do. But such things as these were out of sight beside that which was going on in the room above.

Alfred slept better that night, and woke so much revived, that they thought him better: and Harold, greatly comforted about him, stood tolerably quietly by his side, listening to one or two things that Alfred had longed for months past to say to him.

‘Promise me, Harold dear, that you’ll be a good son to Mother: you’ll be the only one now.’

Harold made a bend of his head like a promise.

‘O Harold, be good to her!’ went on Alfred earnestly; ‘she’s had so much trouble! I do hope God will leave you to her—if you are steady and good. Do, Harold! She’s not like some, as don’t care what their lads get to. And don’t take after me, and be idle! Be right-down good, Harold, as Paul is; and when you come to be ill—oh! it won’t be so bad for you as it was for me!’

‘I do want to be good,’ sighed Harold. ‘If I’d only been confirmed; but ’twas all along of them merries last summer!’

‘And I was such a plague to you—I drove you out,’ said Alfred.

‘No, no, I was a brute to you! Oh! Alfy, Alfy, if I could only get back the time!’

He was getting to the sobs that hurt his brother; and his sister was going to interfere; but Alfred said:

‘Never mind, Harold dear, we’ve been very happy together, and we’ll always love each other. You’ll not forget Alf, and you’ll be Mother’s good son to take care of her! Won’t you?’

So Harold gave that promise, and went away with his tears. Poor fellow, now was his punishment for having slighted the Confirmation. Like Esau, an exceeding bitter cry could not bring back what he had lightly thrown away. Well was it for him that this great sorrow came in time, and that it was not altogether his birthright that he had parted with. He found he could not go out to his potato-planting and forget all about it, as he would have liked to have done—something would not let him; and there he was sitting crouched up and sorrowful on the steps of the stairs, when Mr. Cope and all the rest were gathered in Alfred’s room, a church for the time. Matilda and Ellen had set out the low table with the fair white cloth, and Mr. Cope brought the small cups and paten, which were doubly precious to him for having belonged to his father, and because the last time he had seen them used had been for his father’s last Communion.

Now was the time to feel that a change had really passed over the young pastor in the time of his absence. Before, he could only lead Alfred in his prayers, and give him counsel, tell him to hope in his repentance, and on what that hope was founded. Now that he had bent beneath the hand of the Bishop, he had received, straight down from the Twelve, the Power from on High. It was not Mr. Cope, but the Lord Who had purchased that Pardon by His own most Precious Blood, Who by him now declared to Alfred that the sins and errors of which he had so long repented, were pardoned and taken away. The Voice of Authority now assured him of what he had been only told to hope and trust before. And to make the promise all the more close and certain, here was the means of becoming a partaker of the Sacrifice—here was that Bread and that Cup which shew forth the Lord’s Death till He come. It was very great rest and peace, the hush that was over the quiet room, with only Alfred’s hurried breath to be heard beside Mr. Cope’s voice as he spoke the blessed words, and the low responses of the little congregation. Paul was close beside Alfred—he would have him there between his mother and the wall—and the two whose first Communion it was, were the last to whom Mr. Cope came. To one it was to be the Food for the passage into the unseen world; to the other might it be the first partaking of the Manna to support him through the wilderness of this life.

‘From the highways and hedges,’ here was one brought into the foretaste of the Marriage Supper. Ah! there was one outside, who had loved idle pleasure when the summons had been sent to him. Perhaps the misery he was feeling now might be the means of sparing him from missing other calls, and being shut out at last.

It seemed to fulfil all that Alfred had wished. He lay still between waking and sleeping for a long time afterwards, and then begged for Paul to read to him the last chapters of the Book of Revelation. Matilda wished to read them for him; but he said, ‘Paul, please.’ Paul’s voice was fuller and softer when it was low; his accent helped the sense, and Alfred was more used to them than to his visitor sister. Perhaps there was still another reason, for when Paul came to the end, and was turning the leaves for one of Alfred’s favourite bits, he saw Alfred’s eyes on him, as if he wanted to speak. It was to say, ‘Brothers quite now, Paul! Thank you. I think God must have sent you to help me.’

Alfred seemed better all the evening, and they went to bed in good spirits; but at midnight, Mr. Cope, who was very deeply studying and praying, the better to fit himself for his new office in the ministry, was just going to shut his book, and go up to bed, when he heard a tremulous ring at the bell.

It was Harold, his face looking very white in the light from Mr. Cope’s candle.

‘Oh! please, Sir,’ he said, ‘Alfred is worse; and Mother said, if your light wasn’t out, you’d like to know.’

‘I am very grateful to her,’ said Mr. Cope; and taking up his plaid, he wrapped one end round the boy, and put his arm round him, as he felt him quaking as Paul had done before, but not crying—too much awe-struck for that. He said that his mother thought something had broken in the lungs, and that he would be choked. Mr. Cope made the more haste, that he might judge if the doctor would be of any use.

Paul was sitting up in his bed—they had not let him get up—but his eyes were wide open with distress, as he plainly heard the loud sob that each breath had become. Mrs. King was holding Alfred up in her arms; Matilda was trying to chafe his feet; Ellen was kneeling with her face hidden.

The light of sense and meaning was not gone from Alfred’s eyes, though the last struggle had come. He gave a look as though he were glad to see Mr. Cope, and then gazed on his brother. Mrs. King signed to Harold to come nearer, and whispered, ‘Kiss him.’ His sisters had done so, and he had missed Harold. Then Mr. Cope prayed, and Alfred’s eyes at first owned the sounds; but soon they were closed, and the long struggling breaths were all that shewed that the spirit was still there.

‘He shall swallow up death in victory, and the Lord God shall wipe away tears from all eyes.’

One moment, and the blue eyes they knew so well were opened and smiling on his mother, and then—

It was over; and through affliction and pain, the young spirit had gone to rest!

The funeral day was a very sore one to Paul Blackthorn. He would have given the world to be there, and have heard the beautiful words of hope which received his friend to his resting-place, but he could not get so far. He had tried to carry a message to a house not half so far off as the church, but his knees seemed to give way under him, and his legs ached so much that he could hardly get home. Somehow, a black suit, just such as Harold’s, had come home for him at the same time; but this could not hinder him from feeling that he was but a stranger, and one who had no real place in the home where he lived. There was the house full of people, who would only make their remarks on him—Miss Hardman (who was very critical of the coffin-plate), the school-master, and some of the upper-servants of the house—and poor Mrs. King and Matilda, who could not help being gratified at the attention to their darling, were obliged to go down and be civil to them; while Ellen, less used to restraint, was shut into her own room crying; and Harold was standing on the stairs, very red, but a good deal engaged with his long hat-band. Poor Paul! he had not even his usual refuge—his own bed to lie upon and hide his face—for that had been taken away to make room for the coffin to be carried down.

There, they were going at last, when it had seemed as if the bustle and confusion would never cease. There was Alfred leaving the door where he had so often played, carried upon the shoulders of six lads in white frocks, his old school-fellows and Paul’s Confirmation friends. How Paul envied them for doing him that last service! There was his mother, always patient and composed, holding Harold’s arm—Harold, who must be her stay and help, but looking so slight, so boyish, and so young, then the two girls, Ellen so overpowered with crying that her sister had to lead her; Mrs. Crabbe with Betsey Hardman, who held up a great white handkerchief, for other people’s visible grief always upset her, as she said; and besides, she felt it a duty to cry at such a time; and the rest two and two, quite a train, in their black suits: how unlike the dreary pauper funerals Paul had watched away at Upperscote! That respectable look seemed to make him further off and more desolate, like one cut off, whom no one would follow, no one would weep for. Alfred, who had called him a brother, was gone, and here he was alone!

The others were taking their dear one once more to the church where they had so often prayed that he might have a happy issue out of all his afflictions.

They were met by Mr. Cope, ending his loving intercourse with Alfred by reading out the blessed promise of Resurrection—the assurance that the body they were sowing in weakness would be raised in power; so that the noble boy, whom they had seen fade away like a drooping flower, would rise again blossoming forth in glory, after the Image of the Incorruptible—that Image, thought Mr. Cope, as he read on, which he faithfully strove to copy even through the sufferings due to the corruptible. His voice often shook and faltered. He had never before read that Service; and perhaps, except for those of his own kin, it could never be a greater effort to him, going along with Alfred as he had done, holding up the rod and staff that bore him through the dark valley. And each trembling of his tone seemed to answer something that the mother was feeling in her peaceful, hopeful, thankful grief—yes, thankful that she could lay her once high-spirited and thoughtless boy in his grave, with the same sure and certain hope of a joyful Resurrection, as that ripe and earnest-minded Christian his father, or his little innocent brother. It was peace—awful peace, indeed, but soothing even to Ellen and Harold, new as they were to grief.

But to poor Paul at home, out of hearing of the words of hope, only listening to the melancholy toll of the knell, and quite alone in the disarranged forlorn house, there seemed nothing to take off the edge of misery. He was not wanted to keep Alfred company now, nor to read to him—no one needed him, no one cared for him. He wandered up to where Alfred had lain so long, as if to look for the pale quiet face that used to smile to him. There was nothing but the bed-frame and mattress! He threw himself down on it and cried. He did not well know why—perhaps the chief feeling was that Alfred was gone away to rest and bliss, and he was left alone to be weary and without a friend.

At last the crying began to spend itself, and he turned and looked up. There was Alfred’s little picture of the Crucified still on the wall, and the words under it, ‘For us!’ Paul’s eye fell on it; and somehow it brought to mind what Alfred had said to him on Christmas Day. There was One Who had no home on earth; there was One Who had made Himself an outcast and a wanderer, and Who had not where to lay His Head. Was not He touched with a fellow-feeling for the lonely boy? Would He not help him to bear his friendless lot as a share of His own Cross? Nay, had He not raised him up friends already in his utmost need? ‘There is a Friend Who sticketh closer than a brother.’ He was the Friend that Paul need never lose, and in Whom he could still meet his dear Alfred. These thoughts, not quite formed, but something like them, came gently as balm to the poor boy, and though they brought tears even thicker than the first burst of lonely sorrow, they were as peaceful as those shed beside the grave. Though Paul was absent in the body, this was a very different shutting out from Harold’s on last Tuesday.

Paul must have cried himself to sleep, for he did not hear the funeral-party return, and was first roused by Mrs. King coming up-stairs. He had been so much used to think of this as Alfred’s room, that he had never recollected that it was hers; and now that she was come up for a moment’s breathing-time, he started up ashamed and shocked at being so caught.

But good motherly Mrs. King saw it all, and how he had been weeping where her child had so long rested. Indeed, his face was swelled with crying, and his voice all unsteady.

‘Poor lad! poor lad!’ she said kindly, ‘you were as fond of him as any of them; and if we wanted anything else to make you one of us, that would do it.’

‘O Mother,’ said Paul, as she kindly put her hand on him, ‘I could not bear it—I was so lost—till I looked at that,’ pointing to the little print.

‘Ay,’ said Mrs. King, as she wiped her quiet tears, ‘that Cross was Alfred’s great comfort, and so it is to us all, my boy, whatever way we have to carry it, till we come to where he is gone. No cross, no crown, they say.’

Perhaps it was not bad for any one that this forlorn day had given Paul a fresh chill, which kept him in bed for nearly a week, so as gently to break the change from her life of nursing to Mrs. King, and make him very happy and peaceful in her care.

And when at last on a warm sunny Sunday, Paul Blackthorn returned thanks in church for his recovery—ay, and for a great deal besides—he had no reason to think that he was a stranger cared for by no one.