“Oh! what a lovely cottage!” exclaimed Laura, in an ecstacy of joy, when they stopped before a beautiful house, with large airy windows down to the ground; walls that seemed one brilliant mass of roses; rich flowery meadows in front, and a bright smooth lawn behind, stretching down to the broad bosom of the Thames, which reflected on its glassy surface innumerable boats, filled with gay groups of merry people. “That is such a place as I have often dreamed of, but never saw before! It seems made for perfect happiness!”

“Yes! how delightful to live here with Frank and uncle David!” added Harry. “We shall be sailing on the water all day!”

The cottage gate was now opened, and Major Graham himself appeared under the porch; but instead of hurrying forward, as he always formerly did, to welcome them after the very shortest separation, he stood gravely and silently at the door, without so much as raising his eyes from the ground; and the paleness of his countenance filled both Harry and Laura with astonishment. They flew to meet [229] him, making an exclamation of joy; but after embracing them affectionately, he did not utter a word, and led the way with hurried and agitated steps into a sitting room.

“Where is Frank?” exclaimed Harry, looking eagerly round. “Why is he not here? Call him down! Tell him we are come!”

A long pause ensued; and Laura trembled when she looked at her uncle, who was some moments before he could speak, and sat down taking each of them by the hand, with such a look of sorrow and commiseration, that they were filled with alarm.

“My dear Harry and Laura!” said he solemnly, “you have never known grief till now, but if you love me, listen with composure. I have sad news to tell, yet it is of the very greatest consequence that you should bear up with fortitude. Frank is extremely ill; and the joy he felt about your coming, has agitated him so much, that he is worse than you can possibly conceive. It probably depends upon your conduct now, whether he survives this night or not. Frank knows you are here; he is impatient for you to embrace him; he becomes more and more agitated every moment the meeting is delayed; yet if you give way to childish grief, or even to childish joy, upon seeing him again, the Doctors think it may cause his immediate death. You might hear his breathing in any part of this house. He is in the lowest extreme of weakness! It will be a dreadful scene for you both. Tell me, Harry and Laura, can you trust yourselves? Can you, for Frank’s own sake, enter his room this moment, as quietly as if you had seen him yesterday, and speak to him with composure?”

Laura felt, on hearing these words, as if the very earth had opened under her feet,—a choking sensation arose in her throat,—her colour fled,—her limbs shook,—her whole countenance became convulsed with anguish,—but making [230] a resolute effort, she looked anxiously at Harry, and then said, in a low, almost inaudible voice,

“Uncle David! we are able,—God will strengthen us. I dare not think a moment. The sooner it is done the better. Let us go now.”

Major Graham slowly led the way without speaking, till they reach the bed-room door, where he paused for a moment, while Harry and Laura listened to the gasping sound of Frank struggling for breath.

“Remember you will scarcely know him,” whispered he, looking doubtfully at Laura’s pallid countenance; “but a single expression of emotion may be fatal. Show your love for Frank now, my dear children. Spare him all agitation,—forget your own feelings for his sake.”

When Harry and Laura entered the room, Frank buried his face in his hands, and leaned them on the table, saying, in convulsive accents, “Go away, Laura!—oh go away just now! I cannot bear it yet!—leave me!—leave me!”

If Laura had been turned into marble at the moment, she could not have seemed more perfectly calm, for her mind was wound up to an almost supernatural effort, and advancing to the place where he sat, without attempting to speak, she took Frank by the hand—Harry did the same; and not a sound was heard for some moments, but the convulsive struggles of Frank himself, while he gasped for breath, and vainly tried to speak, till at length he raised his head and fixed his eyes on Laura, who felt then, for the first time, struck with the dreadful conviction, that this meeting was but a prelude to their immediate and final separation. The pale ashy cheek, the hollow eye, the sharp and altered features, all told a tale of anguish such as she had never before conceived, and a cold tremor passed through her frame, as she stood amazed and bewildered with grief, while the past, the present, and the future seemed all one mighty heap of agony. Still she gazed steadily on Frank, and said nothing, [231] conscious that the smallest indulgence of emotion would bring forth a torrent which nothing could control, and determined, unless her heart ceased to beat, that he should see nothing to increase his agitation.

At length, in a low, faint, broken voice, Frank was able to speak, and looking with affectionate sympathy at Laura, he said, “Do not think, dear sister, that I always suffer as you see me now. This joy has been too much for me. I shall soon feel easier.”

Major Graham observed a livid paleness come over Laura’s countenance when she attempted to answer, and seeing it was impossible to sustain the trial a moment longer, he made a pretext to hurry her away. Harry instantly followed, and rushing into a vacant room, he threw himself down in an agony of grief, and wept convulsively, till the very bed shook beneath him. Hours passed on, and Major Graham left them to exhaust their grief in weeping together, but every moment seemed only to increase their agitation, as the conviction became more fearfully certain that Frank was indeed lost to them for ever. This then was the meeting they had so often, and so joyously anticipated! Laura sunk upon her knees beside Harry, and prayers were mingled with their tears, while they asked for consolation, and tried to feel resigned. “Alas!” thought she solemnly, “how truly did grandmama say, ‘If the sorrows of this world are called ‘light afflictions,’ what must be those from which Christ died to save us!’ It is merciful that we are not forbid to weep, for, oh! who ever lost such a brother?—the kindest—the best of brothers!—dear, dear Frank!—can nothing be done! Uncle David!” added Laura, clinging to Major Graham, when he entered the room, “oh! say something to us about Frank getting better,—do you think he will? May we have a hope?—one single hope to live upon, that Frank may possibly be spared; do not turn away—do not look so very sad—think how [232] young Frank is,—and the Doctors are so skilful—and—and oh, uncle David! he is dying! I see it! I must believe it!” continued she, wringing her hands with grief. “You cannot give us one word of hope, though the whole world would be nothing without him.”

“My dear,—my very dear Laura! remember that consoling text in holy Scripture, ‘Be still, and know that I am God;’—we have no idea what He can do in saving us from sorrow, or in comforting us when it comes, therefore let us seek peace from Him, and believe that all shall indeed be ordered well, even though our own hearts were to be broken with affliction. Frank has seen old nurse Crabtree, and is now in a refreshing sleep, therefore I wish you to take the opportunity of sitting in his room, and accustoming yourselves, if possible, to the sight of his altered appearance. He is sometimes very cheerful, and always patient, therefore we must keep up our own spirits, and try to assist him in bearing his sufferings, rather than increase them, by showing what we feel ourselves. I was pleased with you both this morning—that meeting was no common effort, and now we must show our submission to the Divine will, difficult as that may be, by a deep, heartfelt resignation to whatever He ordains.”

Harry and Laura still felt stupified with grief, but they mechanically followed Major Graham into Frank’s room, and sat down in a distant corner behind his chair, observing with awe and astonishment his pallid countenance, his emaciated hands, and his drooping figure, while scarcely yet able to believe that this was indeed their own beloved Frank. After they had remained immoveably still for some time, though shedding many bitter tears, as they gazed on the wreck of one so very dear, he suddenly started awake, and glanced anxiously round the room, then with a look of deep disappointment, he said to uncle David, in low, feeble accents,

[233]
“It was only a dream! I have often dreamed the same thing, when far away at sea,—that would have been too much happiness! I fancied Harry and Laura were here!”

“It was no dream, dear Frank! we are here,” said Laura, trying to speak in a quiet, subdued voice.

“My dear sister! then all is well! but pray sit always where I can see you. After wishing so long for our meeting, it appears nearly impossible that we are together at last.”

Frank became exhausted with speaking so much, but pointed to a seat near himself, where Harry and Laura sat down, after which he gazed at them long and earnestly, with a look of affectionate pleasure, while his smile, which had lost all its former cheerfulness, was now full of tenderness and sensibility. At length his countenance gradually changed, while large tears gathered in his eyes, and coursed each other silently down his cheeks. Thoughts of the deepest sadness seemed passing through his mind during some moments, but checking the heavy sigh that rose in his breast, he riveted his hands together, and looked towards heaven with an expression of placid submission, saying these words in a scarcely audible tone, though evidently addressed to those around,

“Weeping endureth for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” “We know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle be dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” “Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him; but weep sore for him that goeth away: for he shall return no more, nor see his native country.”^*

These words fell upon the ear of Harry and Laura like a knell of death, for they now saw that Frank himself believed he was dying, and it appeared as if their last spark of [234] hope expired when they heard this terrible dispensation announced from his own lips. He seemed anxious now that they should understand his full meaning, and receive all the consolation which his mind could afford, for he closed his eyes, and added in solemn accents,

“I must have died at some time, and why not now? If I leave friends who are very dear on earth, I go to my chief best friend in heaven. The whole peace and comfort of my mind rest on thinking of our Saviour’s merits. Let us all be ready to say, ‘the will of the Lord be done.’ Think often, Harry and Laura, of those words we so frequently repeated to grandmama formerly:

Frank’s voice failed, his head fell back upon the pillows, and he remained for a length of time, with his eyes closed in solemn meditation and prayer, while Laura and Harry, unable so much as to look at each other, leaned upon the table, and wept in silence.

Laura felt as if she had grown old in a moment,—as if life could give no more joy—and as if she herself stood already on the verge of the grave. It appeared like a dream that she had ever been happy, and a dreadful reality to which she was now awakened. “Behold, God taketh away! who can hinder him? who will say unto him, What doest thou?” “Cease ye from man, whose breath is in his nostrils.” These were texts which forced themselves on her mind, with mournful emphasis, while she felt how helpless is earthly [235] affection when the dispensations of God are upon us. All her love for Frank could not avert the stroke of death,—all his attachment to her must now be buried in the grave,—and the very tenderness they felt for each other, only embittered the sorrows of this dreadful moment.

From that day, Harry and Laura, according to the advice of uncle David, testified their affection for Frank, not by tears and useless lamentations, though these were not always to be controlled in private, but by the incessant, devoted attention with which they watched his looks, anticipated his wishes, and thought every exertion a pleasure which could in the slightest degree contribute to his comfort. Frank, on his part, spared their feelings, by often concealing what he suffered, and by speaking of his own death, as if it had been a journey on which he must prepare with readiness to enter, reminding them, that never to die, was never to be happy, as all they saw him endure from sickness, became nothing to what he endured from struggling against sin and temptation, which were the great evils of existence,—and that from all these he would be for ever freed by death. “Those who are prepared for the change,” added he, solemnly, “can neither live too long, nor die too soon; for when God gives us His blessing, He then sends heaven, as it were, into the soul before the soul ascends to heaven; and I trust to being gifted with faith and submission for all that may be ordained during my few remaining hours upon earth.”

Yet, with every desire to feel resigned, Frank himself was sometimes surprised out of his usual fortitude, especially when thinking that he must never more hope to see Lady Harriet, towards whom he cast many a longing and affecting thought, saying once, with deep emotion, “If I could only see grandmama again, I should feel quite well!” One evening, as he sat near an open window, gazing on the rich tints of twilight, and breathing with more than [236] usual ease, a wandering musician paused with her guitar, and sung several airs with great pathos and expression. At length she played the tune of “Home! sweet home,” to which Frank listened for some moments with intense agitation, till, clasping his hands and bursting into tears, he exclaimed, in accents of powerful emotion,

“Home! That happy home! Oh! never—never more,—my home is in the grave.”

Laura wept convulsively while he added in broken accents, “I shall still be remembered—still lamented—you must not love me too well, Laura,—not as I love you, or your sorrow would be too great; but long hence, when Harry and you are happy together, surrounded with friends, think sometimes of one who must for ever be absent,—who loved you better than them all,—whose last prayer will be for you both. Oh! who can tell what my feelings are! I can do nothing now but cause distress and anguish to those who love me best!”

“Frank, I would not exchange your affection for the wealth of worlds. As long as I live, it will be my greatest earthly happiness to have had such a brother; and if we are to suffer a sorrow that I cannot name, and dare not think of, you are teaching me how to bear it, and leaving us the only comfort we can have, in knowing that you are happy.”

“Many plans and many hopes I had for the future, Laura,” added Frank; “but there is no future to me now in this world. Perhaps I may escape a multitude of sorrows, but how gladly would I have shared all yours, and ensured my best happiness by uniting with Harry and you in living to God. If you both learn more by my death than by my life, then, indeed, I do rejoice. With respect to myself, it matters but little a few years or hours sooner, for I may say, in the words of Job, ‘though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.’”

Frank’s sufferings increased every day, and became so [237] very great at last, that the Doctor proposed giving him strong doses of laudanum, to bring on a stupor and allay the pain; but when this was mentioned to him, he said, “I know it is my duty to take whatever you prescribe, and I certainly shall, but if we can do without opiates, let me entreat you to refrain from them. Often formerly at sea I used to think it very sad how few of those I attended in sickness were allowed by the physician to die in possession of their senses, on account of being made to take laudanum, which gave them false spirits and temporary ease. Let me retain my faculties as long as they are mercifully granted to me. I can bear pain,—at least, God grant me strength to do so,—but I cannot willingly enter the presence of my Creator in a state little short of intoxication.”

Many days of agony followed this resolution on the part of Frank, but though the medicine, which would have brought some hours of oblivion, lay within reach, he persevered in wishing to preserve his consciousness, whatever suffering it might cost; and though now and then a prayer for bodily relief was wrung from him in his acute agony, the most frequent and fervent supplications that he uttered night and day were, in an accent of intense emotion, “God have mercy upon my soul.”

Harry and Laura were surprised to find the fields and walks near London so very rural and beautiful as they appeared at Hammersmith, and to meet with much more simplicity and kindness among the common people than they had anticipated. The poorer neighbours, who became aware of their affliction, testified a degree of sympathy which frequently astonished them, and was often afterwards remembered with pleasure, one instance of which seemed peculiarly touching to Laura. Frank always suffered most acutely during the night, and seldom closed his eyes in sleep till morning, therefore she invariably remained with him, to beguile those weary hours, while any remonstrance [238] on his part against so fatiguing a duty, became a mere waste of words, as she only grew sadder and paler, saying, there would be time enough to take care of herself when she could no longer be of use to him. The earliest thing that gave any relief to Frank’s cough every day, generally was, a tumbler of milk, warm from the cow, which had been ordered for him, and was brought almost as soon as the dawn of light. Once, when Frank had been unusually ill, and sighed in restless agony till morning, Laura watched impatiently for day, and when the milkman was seen, at six o’clock, slowly trudging through the fields, and advancing leisurely towards the house, Laura hurried eagerly down to meet him, exclaiming in accents of joy, while she held out the tumbler, “Oh! I am so glad you are come at last!”

“At last, Miss!! I am as early as usual!” replied he, gruffly. “It’s not many poor folks that gets up so soon to their work, and if you had to labour as hard as me all day, you would maybe think the morning came too soon.”

“I am seldom in bed all night,” answered Laura, sadly. “My poor sick brother cannot rest till this milk is brought, and I wait with him, hour after hour till daylight, wearying for you to come.”

The old dairyman looked with sorrowful surprise at Laura, while she, thinking no more of what had passed, hurried away; but next morning, when sitting up again with Frank, she became surprised to observe the milkman a whole hour earlier than usual, plodding along towards his cattle at a peculiarly rapid pace. He stayed not more than five minutes, only milking one cow, though all the others gathered round him, and as soon as he had filled his little pail, he came straight toward Major Graham’s cottage, and knocked at the door. Laura instantly ran down to thank him with her whole heart for his kind attention, after which, [239] as long as Frank continued ill, the old dairyman rose long before his usual time, to bring this welcome refreshment.

Frank desired Laura to beg that he would not take so much trouble, or else to insist on his accepting some remuneration, but the old man would neither discontinue the custom, nor receive any recompense.

“Let me see this kind good dairyman, to thank him myself,” said Frank, one night, when he felt rather easier; and next morning, Laura invited poor Teddy Collins to walk up stairs, who looked exceedingly astonished, though very much pleased at the proposal, saying, “May be, Ma’am, the poor young gentleman would not like to see a stranger like me!”

“No one is a stranger who feels for him as you have done,” replied Laura, leading the way, and Frank’s countenance lighted up with a smile of pleasure when they entered his room. He held out his thin emaciated hand to Teddy, who looked earnestly and sorrowfully in his face as he grasped hold of it, saying, “You look very poorly, Sir! I’m afraid, indeed, you are sadly ill.”

“That I am! as ill as any one can be on this side of eternity! My tale is told, my days are numbered; but I would not go out of this world without saying how grateful we both feel for your attention. As a cup of cold water given in Christian kindness shall hereafter be rewarded, I trust also that your attention to me may not be forgotten.”

“You are heartily welcome, Sir! It is a great honour for a poor old man like me to oblige anybody. I shall not long be able for work now, seeing that I am upwards of threescore and ten, and my days are already full of labour and sorrow.”

“To both of us, then, the night is far spent, and the day is at hand,” replied Frank—“How strange it seems, that, old as you are. I am still older; my feeble frame will be sooner worn out, and my body laid at rest in the grave! [240] Let me hope that you have already applied your heart to wisdom, for every child of earth must, sooner or later, find how short is every thing but eternity. While I appear before you here as a spectacle of mortality, think how soon and how certainly you must follow. May you then find, as I do, that even in the last extreme of sickness and sorrow, there is comfort in looking forward to such blessings as ‘eye hath not seen, nor ear heard.’ Farewell, my kind friend! In this world we shall meet no more, but there is another and a better.”

The old man, apparently unwilling to withdraw, paused for some moments after Frank had ceased to speak. He muttered a few inaudible words in reply, and then slowly and sorrowfully left the room, while Frank’s head sunk languidly on the pillows, and Laura retired to her room, where, as usual, she wept herself to sleep.

When Harry and Laura first arrived at Hammersmith, Frank felt anxious that they should walk out every day for the benefit of their health; but finding that each made frequent excuses for remaining constantly with him at home, he invented a plan which induced them to take exercise regularly.

Being early in June, strawberries were yet so exceedingly rare, that they could scarcely be had for any money; but the Doctor had allowed his patient to eat fruit. Frank asked his two young attendants to wander about in quest of gardens where a few strawberries could be got, and to bring him some. Accordingly, they set out one morning; and after a long, unsuccessful search, at last observed a small green-house near the road, with one little basket in the window, scarcely larger than a thimble, containing two or three delicious King seedlings, perfectly ripe. These were to be sold for five shillings; but hardly waiting to ascertain the price, Laura seized this welcome prize with delight, and paid for it on the spot. Every morning afterwards, her regular [241] walk was to hasten with Harry towards this pretty little shop, where they talked to the gardener about poor Frank being so very ill, and told him that this fine fruit was wanted for their sick brother at home.

One day the invalid seemed so much worse than usual, that neither Harry nor Laura could bear to leave him a moment; so they requested Mrs. Crabtree to fetch the strawberries, which she readily agreed to do; but on drawing out her purse in the shop, and saying that she came to buy that little basket of fruit at the window, what was her astonishment when the gardener looked civil and sorry, answering that he would not sell those strawberries if she offered him a guinea a-piece.

“No!” exclaimed Mrs. Crabtree, getting into a rage; “then what do you put them up at the window for? There is no use pretending to keep a shop, if you will not sell what is in it! Give me these strawberries this minute, and here’s your five shillings!”

“It’s quite impossible,” replied the gardener, holding back the basket. “You see, ma’am, every day last week a little Master and Miss came to this here shop, buying my strawberries for a young gentleman who is very ill; and they look both so sweet and so mournful-like, that I would not disappoint them for all the world. They seem later to-day than usual, and are, may be, not coming at all; but if I lose my day’s profits, it can’t be helped. They shall not walk here for nothing, if they please to come!”

When Mrs. Crabtree explained that she belonged to the same family as Harry and Laura, the gardener looked hard at her to see if she were attempting to deceive him; but feeling convinced that she spoke the truth, he begged her to carry off the basket to his young friends, positively refusing to take the price.

---

[242]
CHAPTER XVII.
 
 
THE LAST BIRTH-DAY.

Frank felt no unnatural apathy or indifference about dying, for he looked upon it with awe, though not with fear; nor did he express any rapturous excitement on the solemn occasion, knowing that death is an appointed penalty for transgression, which, though deprived of its sharpest sting by the triumphs of the cross, yet awfully testifies to all succeeding generations, that each living man has individually merited the utmost wrath of God, and that the last moment on earth, of even the most devoted Christian, must be darkened by the gloom of our original sin and natural corruption. Yet, “as in Adam all die, so in Christ are all made alive;” and amidst the throng of consolatory and affecting meditations that crowded into his mind on the great subject of our salvation, he kept a little book in which were carefully recorded such texts and reflections as he considered likely to strengthen his own faith, and to comfort those he left behind—saying one day to Major Graham,

“Tell grandmama, that though my days have been few upon the earth, they were happy! When you think of me, uncle David, after my sufferings are over, it may well be a [243] pleasing remembrance, that you were always the best, the kindest of friends. Oh! how kind! but I must not—cannot speak of that——. This is my birth-day!—my last birth-day! Many a joyous one we kept together, but those merry days are over, and these sadder ones too shall cease; yet the time is fast approaching, so welcome to us both,

In the evening, Major Graham observed that Frank made Mrs. Crabtree bring everything belonging to him, and lay it on the table, when he employed himself busily in tying up a number of little parcels, remarking, with a languid smile,

“My possessions are not valuable, but these are for some old friends and messmates, who will be pleased to receive a trifling memorial of one who loved them. Send my dirk to Peter Grey, who is much reformed now. Here are all the letters any of you ever sent me; how very often they have been read! but now, even that intercourse must end; keep them, for they were the dearest treasures I possessed. At Madras, formerly, I remember hearing of a nabob who was bringing his whole fortune home in a chest of gold, but the ropes for hoisting his treasure on board were so insufficient, that the whole gave way, and it fell into the ocean, never to be recovered. That seemed a very sudden termination of his hopes and plans, but scarcely more unexpected than my own. ‘We are a wind that passeth away and cometh not again.’ Many restless nights are ordained for me now, probably that I may find no resource but prayer and meditation. Others can afford time to slumber, but I so soon shall sleep the sleep of death, that it becomes a blessing to have such hours of solitary thought, for preparing my heart and establishing my faith, during this moment of need.”

[244]
“Yes, Frank! but your prayers are not solitary, for ours are joined to yours,” added Laura. “I read in an old author lately, that Christian friends in this world might be compared to travellers going along the same road in separate carriages—sometimes they are together—often they are apart—sometimes they can exchange assistance, as we do now—and often they jostle against each other, till at last, having reached the journey’s end, they are removed out of these earthly vehicles into a better state, where they shall look back upon former circumstances, and know even as they are known.”

Laura was often astonished to observe the change which had taken place in her own character and feelings within the very short period of their distress. Her extreme terror of a thunder-storm formerly, had occasioned many a jest to her brothers, when Harry used, occasionally, to roll heavy weights in the room above her own, to imitate the loudest peals, while Frank sometimes endeavoured to argue her out of that excessive apprehension with which she listened to the most distant surmise of a storm. Now, however, at Hammersmith, long after midnight, the moon, on one occasion, became completely obscured by dense heavy clouds, and the air felt so oppressively hot, that Frank, who seemed unusually breathless, drew closer to the window. Laura supported his head, and was deeply occupied in talking to him, when suddenly a broad flash of lightning glared into the room, followed by a crash of thunder, that seemed to crack the very heavens. Again and again the lightning gleamed in her face with such vividness, that Laura fancied she could distinguish the heat of it, and yet she stirred not, nor did a single exclamation, as in former days, arise on her lips.

“Pray shut the window, Laura,” said Frank languidly, raising his eyes; “and be so kind as to close the shutters!”

[245]
“Why, Frank?—you never used to be alarmed by thunder!”

“No! nor am I now, dear Laura. What danger need a dying person fear? Some few hours sooner or later would be of little consequence—

Yet, Laura, do you think I have forgotten old times! Oh, no!—not while I live. You attend to my feelings, and surely it is my duty to remember yours.”

“Never mind me, Frank!” whispered Laura. “I have got over all that folly. When real fears and sorrows come, we care no more about those that were imaginary.”

“True, my dear sister; and there is no courage or fortitude like that derived from faith in a superintending providence. Though all creation reel, we may sleep in peace, for to Christians ‘danger is safe, and tumult calm.’”

When Frank grew worse, he became often delirious. Yet as in health he had been habitually cheerful, his mind generally wandered to agreeable subjects. He fancied himself walking on the bright meadows, and picking flowers by the river side,—meeting Lady Harriet,—and even speaking to his father, as if Sir Edward had been present; while Harry and Laura listened, weeping and trembling, to behold the wreck of such a mind and heart as his. One evening, he seemed unusually well, and requested that his arm-chair might be wheeled to the open window, where he gazed with delight at the hills and meadows,—the clouds and glittering water,—the cattle standing in the stream,—the boats reflected on its surface,—and the roses fluttering at every casement.

“Those joyous little birds!—their song makes me cheerful,” said he, in a tone of placid enjoyment. “I have been in countries where the birds never sing, and the leaves [246] never fade; but they excited no sympathy or interest. Here we have notes of gladness both in sunshine and storm, teaching us a lesson of grateful contentment,—while those drooping roses preach a sermon to me, for as easily might they recover freshness and bloom as myself. We shall both lie low before long in the dust, yet a spring shall come hereafter to revive even ‘the ashes of the urn.’ Then, uncle David, we meet again,—not as now, amidst sorrow and suffering, with death and separation before us,—but blessed by the consciousness that our sins are forgiven,—our trials all ended,—and that our afflictions which were but for a moment, have worked out for us a far more exceeding, even an eternal weight of glory.”

Some hours afterwards the Doctor entered. After receiving a cordial welcome from Frank, and feeling his pulse, he instantly examined his arms and neck, which were covered entirely over with small red spots, upon observing which, the friendly physician suddenly changed countenance, and stole an alarmed glance at Major Graham.

“I feel easier and better to-day, Doctor, than at any time since my illness,” said Frank, looking earnestly in his face. “Do you think this eruption will do me good? Life has much that would be dear to me, while I have friends like these to live for. Can it be possible that I may yet recover?”

The Doctor turned away, unable to reply, while Frank intensely watched his countenance, and then gazed at the pale agitated face of Major Graham. Gradually the hope which had brightened in his cheek began to fade,—the lustre of his eye became dim,—his countenance settled into an expression of mournful resignation,—and covering his face with his hands, he said, in a voice of deep emotion,

“I see how it is!—God’s will be done!”

The silence of death succeeded, while Frank laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. A few natural tears [247] coursed each other slowly down his cheek; but at length, an hour or two afterwards, being completely exhausted, he fell into a gentle sleep, from which the Doctor considered it very doubtful if he would ever awaken, as the red spots indicated mortification, which must inevitably terminate his life before next day.

Laura retired to the window, making a strenuous effort to restrain her feelings, that she might be enabled to witness the last awful scene; and fervently did she pray for such strength to sustain it with fortitude, as might still render her of some use to her dying brother. Her pale countenance might almost have been mistaken for that of a corpse, but for the expression of living agony in her eye; and she was sunk in deep, solemn thought, when her attention became suddenly roused by observing a chariot and four drive furiously up to the gate, while the horses were foaming and panting as they stopped. A tall gentleman, of exceedingly striking appearance, sprung hurriedly out, walked rapidly towards the cottage door, and in another minute entered Frank’s room, with the animated look of one who expected to be gladly welcomed, and to occasion an agreeable surprise.

Harry and Laura shrunk close to their uncle, when the stranger, now in evident agitation, gazed round the room with an air of painful astonishment, till Major Graham looked round, and instantly started up with an exclamation of amazement, “Edward! is it possible! This is indeed a consolation! you are still in time!”

“In time!!” exclaimed Sir Edward, grasping his brother’s hand with vehement agitation. “Do you mean to say that Frank is yet in danger!”

Major Graham mournfully shook his head, and undrawing the bed curtains, he silently pointed to the sleeping countenance of Frank, which was as still as death, and already overspread by a ghastly paleness. Sir Edward then sunk into a chair, and clenched his hands over his forehead with [248] a look of unspeakable anguish, saying, in an under-tone, “Worn out, as I am, in mind and body, I needed not this to destroy me! Say at once, brother, is there any hope?”

“None, my dear Edward! None! Even now he is insensible, and I fear with little prospect of ever becoming conscious again.”

At this moment Frank opened his eyes, which were dim and glassy, while it became evident that he had relapsed into a state of temporary delirium.

“Get more candles! how very dark it is!” he said. “Who are all those people? Send away everybody but grandmama! I must speak to her alone. Never tell papa of all this, it would only distress him—say nothing about me. Why do Harry and Laura never come? They have been absent more than a week! Who took away uncle David too?”

Laura listened for some time in an agony of grief, till at last, unable any longer to restrain her feelings, she clasped Frank in her arms and burst into tears, exclaiming, in accents of piercing distress, “Oh Frank! dear Frank! have you forgotten poor Laura?”

“Not till I am dead!” whispered he, while a momentary gleam of recollection lighted up his face. “Laura! we meet again.”

Sir Edward now wished to speak, but Frank had relapsed into a state of feeble unconsciousness, from which nothing could arouse him; once or twice he repeated the name of Laura in a low melancholy voice, till it became totally inaudible—his breath became shorter—his lips became livid—his whole frame seemed convulsed—and some hours afterwards, all that was mortal of Frank Graham ceased to exist. About four in the morning his body was at rest, and his spirit returned to God who gave it.

The candles had burned low in their sockets, and still the mourners remained, unwilling to move from the awful [249] scene of their bereavement. Mrs. Crabtree at length, who laid out the body herself, extinguished the lights, and flung open the window curtains. Then suddenly a bright blaze of sunshine streamed into the room, and rested on the cold pale face of the dead. To the stunned and bewildered senses of Harry and Laura, the brilliant dawn of morning seemed like a mockery of their distress. Many persons were already passing by—the busy stir of life had begun, and a boy strolling along the road whistled his merry tune as he went gaily on.

“We are indeed mere atoms in the world!” thought Laura bitterly, while these sights and sounds fell heavily on her heart. “If Harry and I had both been dead also, the sun would have shone as brightly, the birds sung as joyfully, and those people been all as gay and happy as ever! Nobody is thinking of Frank—nobody knows our misery—the world is going on as if nothing had happened, and we are breaking our hearts with grief!”

Laura’s heart became stilled as she gazed on the peaceful and almost happy expression of those beautiful features, which had now lost all appearance of suffering. The eyes, from which nothing but kindness and love had beamed upon her, were now closed for ever; the lips which had spoken only words of generous affection and pious hope, were silent; and the heart which had beat with every warm and brotherly feeling, was for the first time insensible to her sorrows; yet Laura did not give way to the strong excess of her grief, for it sunk upon her spirit with a leaden weight of anguish, which tears and lamentations could not express, and could not even relieve. She rose and kissed, for the last time, that beloved countenance, which she was never to look upon again till they met in heaven, and stole away to the silence and solitude of her own room, where Laura tried in vain to collect her thoughts. All seemed a dreary blank. She did not sigh—she could not weep; but she sat in dark [250] and vacant abstraction, with one only consciousness filling her mind—the bitter remembrance that Frank was dead—that she could be of no farther use to him—that she could have no future intercourse with him—that even in her prayers she could no longer have the comfort of naming him; and when at last she turned to his own Bible which he had given her, to seek for consolation, her eyes refused their office, and the pages became blistered with tears.

After Frank’s funeral, Sir Edward became too ill to leave his bed; and Major Graham remained with him in constant conversation; while Harry and Laura did every thing to testify their affection, and to fill the place now so sadly vacant.

On the following Sunday, several of the congregation at Hammersmith observed two young strangers in the rector’s pew, dressed in the deepest mourning, with pale and downcast countenances, who glided early into church, and sat immoveably still, side by side, while Mr. Palmer gave out for his text the affecting and appropriate words which Frank himself had often repeated during his last illness, “In an hour that ye think not, the Son of man cometh.”

Not a tear was shed by either Harry or Laura,—their grief was too great for utterance; yet they listened with breathless interest to the sermon, intended not only to console them, but also to instruct other young persons, from the afflicting event of Frank’s death.

Mr. Palmer took this opportunity to describe all the amiable dispositions of youth, and to show how much of what is pleasing may appear before religion has yet taken entire possession of the mind; but he painted in glowing colours the beautiful consistency and harmony of character which must ensue after that happy change, when the Holy Spirit renews the heart and influences the life. It almost seemed to Harry and Laura as if Frank were visibly before their eyes, when Mr. Palmer spoke in eloquent terms of that [251] humility which no praise could diminish—that benevolence which attended to the feelings, as well as the wants of others,—that affection which was ever ready to make any sacrifice for those he loved,—that docility which obeyed the call of duty on every occasion,—that meekness in the midst of provocation which could not be irritated,—that gentle firmness in maintaining the truths of the gospel, which no opposition could intimidate,—that cheerful submission to suffering which saw a hand of mercy in the darkest hour,—and that faith which was ever “forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before,—pressing toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.”

It seemed as if years had passed over the heads of Harry and Laura during the short period of their absence from home—that home where Frank had so anxiously desired to go! All was changed within and around them,—sorrow had filled their hearts, and no longer merry, thoughtless creatures, believing the world one scene of frolicsome enjoyment and careless ease; they had now witnessed its realities,—they had felt its trials,—they had experienced the importance of religion,—they had learned the frailty of all earthly joy,—and they had received, amidst tears and sorrows, the last injunction of a dying brother, to “call upon the Lord while He is near, and to seek Him while he may yet be found.”

“Uncle David,” said Laura one day, several months after their return home, “Mrs. Crabtree first endeavoured to lead us aright by severity,—you and grandmama then tried what kindness could do, but nothing was effectual till now, when God Himself has laid His hand upon us. Oh! what a heavy stroke was necessary to bring me to my right mind, but now, while we weep many bitter tears, Harry and I often pray together that good may come out of evil, and that ‘we who mourn so deeply, may find our best, our only comfort from above’.”