"Paul must have been a great comfort to you."

"Believe me, Mr. Radcliffe," she urged, still weeping. "I would have spared you this refusal. I will not deny that before we left Rome, I began to suspect the nature of your sentiments; and assumed a coldness foreign to my feelings in order that you might understand that, however much I admired you as a Christian gentleman, nothing farther could take place."

"But why? If there are obstacles, I can overcome them. I am at the age when men desire a home and family; but having found the only one I ever desired to marry, I am willing to wait if you think it too soon after your husband's death."

She shuddered. "You are mistaken, Sir Jones," she faltered, every particle of color vanishing from her face and lips. "In justice to you I ought to confess that had circumstances been different I might have yielded to your wishes; but the man who once called me wife still lives, though just sinking into the grave. Nearly four years ago the law sundered the tie; and when I tell you that I have just come from his death-bed, the death-bed of an humble penitent, clinging for pardon to the cross of his Saviour, you will not wonder that I have no desire to speak of past trials."

"Is it possible," exclaimed the gentleman, "that the invalid for whom you have denied yourself the society and admiration of the most eminent persons in Rome, ever bore such a relation to you? I understand your character well enough to be sure no trivial reasons would gain your consent to a divorce; and you have treated him as if he were your best friend."

"Did not our Saviour, whom we propose to take for an example, do this? Did he not return blessing for cursing; kindness for unkindness; and shall not we, with far less provocation, endeavor to do likewise? But indeed you are giving me too much credit. Surely no one would see a fellow countryman suffering from disease and privation, without hastening to his relief; and I have been rewarded," she continued, turning her humid eyes, beaming with holy fervor, on his, "by witnessing the most remarkable display of divine grace, that has ever come to my knowledge."

"With my whole heart I sympathize with your joy," he responded, warmly. "Will the gentleman remain in Rome?"

"If he lives till June, which I consider doubtful, he will return to the United States, where his parents reside. I shall probably never see him more."

Possibly the gentleman made his own inference from the fact that she had left the invalid, when he might live for months. At any rate his spirits rose; and she thought he had never been more brilliant in conversation, than during their return home.

A long private conversation with Mr. Wallingford, resulted in an earnest invitation for the travellers to make their headquarters at his country seat, while in Great Britain. But this, though urged by her brother to accept, Gertrude steadily declined. All she would do was to spend one day in the beautiful retreat so exactly to her taste, before she hurried Edward away to London.

When the time for sailing came, she acknowledged to herself, it was none too early, for her own happiness, to bid Sir Jones adieu. A few more weeks passed in his society would make it difficult for her to adhere to a decision which in her case she knew to be right.

Contrary to her expectations, when she went on board the steamer for New York, she found Mr. Radcliffe awaiting them; and when she expressed her surprise at finding him there, a merry glance thrown at her brother, convinced her it was not an accident. She wondered a little at his manner of bidding her adieu, not at all as if he considered it, as she did, a final parting; but when he said in her ear, with a hopeful smile:

"Another year and I intend to be speeding over the waters," the vivid blushes that dyed her cheeks, proved to her lover that she was aware he had not abandoned his design.

CHAPTER XXII.

FATHER AND SON.

THE wedding of Mr. Wallingford and Miss Gilbert was over; and the happy couple were on their wedding tour. They were to be absent till August; and Gertrude was both busy and happy in superintending the enlargement of Rose Cottage. Little Paul, at first almost frantic in his joy at seeing her once more, now followed her lovingly about, only fearful lest she should again depart.

One morning, on opening her letters, she found an envelope, post marked, "Philadelphia." She had wondered for a week why she heard nothing; for it was time Mr. Dudley should arrive, if he sailed at the time he expected; but now her heart almost ceased to beat. Seizing her boy by the hand she flew to her chamber, shut and fastened the door and sat down to read.

The address was in the chirography of his sister Anna, now Mrs. Ridley; but the letter was traced by a feeble hand and contained these words:

"Through the favor of the Friend who has promised to lead me safely to the end of my journey, I reached home two weeks ago; but I have been too much exhausted to notify you of my arrival according to your request."

"Later. My strength fails so fast I must hasten to make of you one last request. Do not gratify me unless you think it best; or, if it will pain you too much. I am near my end, and with my whole heart I yearn over the child I have never seen. Will you bring him to me, and at once, before it is too late?"

The closing sentence was written by his sister. She went on, "Dear Mrs. Wallingford. If you are willing to gratify my poor brother and bring little Paul to his father's death-bed, you will convey one more lasting obligation on hearts that owe you already more than they can express. Our dear, distressed invalid fainted after writing the above; and I have taken it upon myself to forward this to you. He has often since his return told us your motto in regard to him has been, 'Good for evil.' Acting upon this will you not come to Philadelphia at once?"

"Evening. I had written so far, when I was summoned to my brother's bed, where it was thought he was dying. He motioned me to his side, and gasping with every word, he said faintly:"

"'Tell her, if the blessing of an humble penitent is worth any thing, I leave mine for her and our boy. Tell her, Christ has made himself known, the One above all others; matchless in love and grace.—Tell her I shall shine as a star in her crown.—Tell her, Christ is all my salvation and all my desire. If he will save such a sinner as I am, the very chief, there is no need for any to despair of mercy.—Tell her, to go on doing good to all around, and train her little Paul to follow his Saviour's steps. Farewell.'"

"I cannot stop to narrate the paroxysms of pain with which these disjointed sentences were uttered. He has now fallen asleep under the influence of opiates. Our physician still thinks he may survive two or three days longer."

"In the deepest affliction,"

"ANNA D. RIDLEY."

In less than an hour from her receipt of the letter, Gertrude with her boy and accompanied by her faithful Bridget, were on their way to the landing to be in season for the twelve o'clock boat.

If she were prospered she hoped to be in Philadelphia by seven o'clock at latest; and her whole soul went up to God in earnest prayer, that she might be in season.

"Will she come?" This question had been repeated many times during the day; and now as twilight approached it was evident to all, that before the sun, whose rays were gilding the western horizon, should rise again, the soul of the sufferer would have fled away from earth, to his mansion in the skies.

Suddenly a carriage is heard dashing through the street. It stops at the door, and a lady hurriedly alights, after directing the driver to ring the bell. Then a servant more leisurely follows, holding by the hand a lovely boy.

"She has come," murmured Mrs. Dudley, bending over her dying son.

"God be praised. I have nothing more to ask. Will you leave us alone?"

The door softly opened and gentle steps advanced to the side of the bed.

"Papa," said a sweet, childish voice, "I'm your little Paul. Mamma told me you were sick; and I wanted to come right off and see you."

The father held the small, dimpled hand, and tried to articulate one word; but the emotions had been too much for his feeble frame, and for a few moments his paroxysms of distress were terrible to witness. But he did not lose his consciousness; and seemed so fearful Gertrude would take Paul from the room, that she bent over him, murmuring:

"I will not leave you. It is hard not to be able to help you."

He was soon relieved, and said panting:

"It is all right. He," pointing upward, "orders every pang. I shall soon have a whole eternity to rest in."

"My son," he repeated solemnly, placing his hand on the boy's head, "I prayed God to allow me to see you, and now I want to say, 'Fear God and keep his commandments.' This will render you happy in life and triumphant in death."

He turned his dying eyes upon the weeping figure before him and said tenderly:

"You will love to remember that you complied with the request of one who even in his dying hour, mourns over his own blindness, folly and guilt. Tell our boy to take your motto for his own and learn to render 'good for evil.'"

These were his last words, though he retained his consciousness for an hour, and when repeatedly asked by Gertrude:

"Is Christ precious? Does he give you peace?" there was a pressure of her hand.

At a quarter before ten, the same night she arrived, the end came; the sick man quietly breathing fainter and fainter, like an infant going to rest.

Standing there, gazing on those wan features, Gertrude's heart arose in gratitude to God, that out of death, eternal life had begun in the soul of the penitent believer; and she could almost hear the words of the Saviour, "'This day thou shalt be with me in paradise.'"