Perhaps they had done it in the light of a peace-offering-a sort of something that might rest soothingly upon their conscience; an atonement for the harsh words they had once lavished on Thomas Godolphin. Mr. Snow also had come up; unable to attend earlier, he came stealing now at the last, just as George had stolen up years before at the funeral of Ethel Grame. It was a notable contrast, the simple ceremony of to-day and the grand parade which had been made the last time a Godolphin was interred-Sir George. But the men, dead, were different, and circumstances had changed.

Did the rector of All Souls', standing there with his pale severe face, his sonorous voice echoing over the graves, recal those back funerals, when he, over whom the service was now being read, had stood as chief mourner? No doubt he did. Did George recal them? The rector glanced at him once, and saw that he had a difficulty in suppressing his emotion. This was the first time he and George had met since the crash had come. How did George feel as he stood there, between the two men whom he had so wronged? Did he envy Thomas Godolphin in his coffin? He had escaped from the turmoil of the world's care and had gone to his rest. To his rest, if ever dead man had in this world.

"I heard a voice from Heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: even so saith the Spirit; for they rest from their labours."

So hushed was the silence, that every word, as it fell solemnly from the lips of the minister, might be heard to all parts of the churchyard. If ever that verse could apply to frail humanity, with its unceasing struggle after holiness and its unceasing failure here, it most surely applied to him over whom it was being spoken. How did George Godolphin feel? Surely it was an ordeal to him to stand there before those men whom he had injured, over the good brother whom he had helped to send to the grave! His head was bowed, his face hidden in his handkerchief; the drops of rain pattered down on his golden hair. He had gone to his grave so early! Bend forward, as so many of those spectators are doing, and read the inscription on the plate. There's a little earth on the coffin, but the plate is visible. "Thomas Godolphin of Ashlydyat: aged forty-five years."

Only forty-five years! A period at which some men think they are but beginning life. It seemed to be an untimely death; and it would have been, after all his pain and sorrow, but that he had entered upon a better life. Some of those, left to live on, might envy him now. Could they, in their thoughtful reflection, have wished, now that it was over, that one sorrow had been lightened for him, one pang removed? No; for God had but been fitting him for that better life; and it is only those who have drunk here of their full cup of sorrow that are eager to enter upon it.

They left him in the vaulted grave, the last Godolphin of Ashlydyat, his coffin resting near his mother's, who lay beside Sir George. Was that vault destined to be opened shortly again? In truth, it was little worth while to close it.

The spectators began to draw unobtrusively away, silently and decently. In the general crowd and bustle, for everybody seemed to

be on the move, George turned suddenly to the rector and held out his hand. 'Will you shake hands with me, Mr. Hastings ?"

There was a perceptible hesitation on the rector's part, not in the least sought to be disguised, ere he responded to it, and then he put his own hand into the one held out. "I cannot do otherwise over the dead body of your brother," was the answer. "But neither can I be a hypocrite, George Godolphin, and say that I forgive you, for it would not be true. The result of the injury you did me presses daily and hourly upon us in a hundred ways, and my mind as yet has refused to be brought into that charitable frame, necessary to entire forgiveness. This is not altogether the fault of my will. I wish to forgive you for your wife's sake and for my own; I pray night and morning that I may be enabled heartily to forgive you before I die. I would not be your enemy; I wish you well-and there's my hand in token of it: but to pronounce forgiveness is not yet in my power. Will you call in and see Mrs. Hastings?"

"I shall not have time to-day. I must go back to London this evening, but I shall be down again very shortly, and will see her then. It was a peaceful ending."

George was gazing down dreamily at the coffin as he spoke the last words. The rector looked at him.

"A peaceful ending! Yes. It could not be anything else with him."

"No, no," murmured George. "Not anything else with him."

May God in His mercy send us all as happy a one, when our time shall come!"

As the words left the rector's lips, the loud and heavy bell boomed out again, giving notice to Prior's Ash that the last rites were over, that the world had closed for ever on Thomas Godolphin.

II.

CAUGHT BY MR. SNOW.

"OH, George! can't you stay with me!"

The words broke from Maria with a wail of anguish as she rose to bid her husband good-by. He was hastening away to catch the evening train. It seemed that she had not liked to prefer the request before, had put it off to the last moment. In point of fact, she had seen but little of George all day. After the funeral he had returned in the coach with Lord Averil to Ashlydyat, and only came home late in the afternoon.

Lord and Lady Averil, recalled so suddenly from their wedding tour, had reached Ashlydyat the previous night, and would not leave it again. Janet was to depart from it in a few days; Bessy would be on the morrow with Lady Godolphin. It was the last time they, the brother and the two sisters, would be together-certainly for years, perhaps for ever; and George could not in decency hasten away. There were many things to say, various little personal mementoes of Thomas to be divided. Maria had been requested to spend that last day at Ashlydyat, and had promised; but in the morning she was

attacked with faintness and sickness-as she had been two or three times lately and was unable to leave her bed.

She grew better in the after part of the day, and was up and looking herself again when George came home at dusk. Certainly her face was unusually pale, but, if George cast a thought to that paleness, it was only to suppose it the reflexion of her new black dress and its crape trimming. "Have but one dress of deep mourning; I will pay for it," Janet had considerately said to her. "But mourning will be the worst wear on board ship, and too hot and heavy for India."

There were other reasons, Maria thought in her own mind, why one dress would be sufficient for her-that she should not live to require another. She did not speak of this feeling; she shrank from doing so. In the first place, she was not sure of this: the under-current of conviction of it lay so very deep in her heart that it was not always apparent to her. Now and then she had hinted it to George-that it might be. George would not by any means receive it; he partly reasoned, partly soothed her out of it; and he went privately to Mr. Snow, begged him to take all possible care of his wife, and asked whether there were really any grounds for alarm. Mr. Snow answered him much in the same terms that he had answered Margery to the like question-that he could not say for certain: she was, no doubt, very weak and poorly, but he saw no reason why she should not get out of it; and as for himself, he was taking of her all the care he could take. The reply satisfied George, and he became full of the projects and details of his departure, entering into them so warmly with her that Maria caught the spirit of enterprise, and was beguiled into a belief that she might yet go.

He had come home from the funeral bearing a parcel wrapped in paper for Meta. It had been found amidst Thomas Godolphin's things, directed to the child. George lifted Meta on his knee; very grave, very subdued was his face to-day; and untied it. It proved to be a Bible, and on the fly-leaf in his own hand was written, "Uncle Thomas's last and best gift to Meta," and it was dated the day he died. Lower down were the words, "My ways are ways of pleasantness, and all my paths are peace."

And the evening had gone on, and it grew time for George to go. It was as he bent to kiss his wife that she had burst out with that wailing cry. "Oh, George! can't you stay with me!"

My darling, I must go. I shall soon be down again."

Only a little while! A little longer!"

The tone in its anguish quite distressed him. "I would stay if it were possible; but it is not. I came down for a day only, you know, Maria, and I have remained more than a week. It will not be so very long before we sail, and I shall have my hands full with the preparations for our voyage."

"I have been so much alone," she hysterically sobbed. "I get thinking and thinking: it does not give me a chance to get well. George, you have been always away from me since the trouble came."

"I could not help it. Maria, I could not bear Prior's Ash; I could not stop in it," he cried, with a burst of genuine truth. "But

for you and Thomas, I should never have set my foot within the place again, once I was quit of it. Now, however, I am compelled to be in London; there are fifty things to see to. Keep up your courage, my darling! a little while, and we shall be together and happy as we used to be."

"Master," said Margery, putting her head in at the door, "do you want to catch the nine train ?"

"All right," answered George.

"It may be all right if you run for it, it won't be all right else," grunted Margery.

He flew off, catching up his hand-portmanteau as he went, and waving his adieu to Meta. That young damsel, accustomed to be made a vast deal of, could not understand so summary and slighting a leave-taking, and she stood quite still in her consternation, staring after her papa or rather at the door he had gone out of. Margery was right, and George found that he must indeed hasten if he would save the train. Maria, with a storm of hysterical sobs, grievous to witness, caught Meta in her arms, sat down on the sofa, and sobbed over the child as she strained her to her bosom.

Meta was used to her mamma's grief now, and she lay quite still, her shoes and white socks peeping out beyond the black frock; nay, a considerable view of the straight little legs peeping out as well. Maria bent her head until her aching forehead rested on the fair and plump neck.

66 Mamma!

Thomas!"

Mamma dear! Mamma's crying for poor Uncle

"No," said Maria, in the bitterness of her heart. "If we were but where Uncle Thomas is, we should be happy. I cry for us who are left, Meta."

"Hey-day! and what on earth's the meaning of this? Do you think this is the way to get strong, Mrs. George Godolphin ?"

They had not heard him come in; Maria's sobs were loud. Meta, always ready for visitors, scuffled off her mamma's lap gleefully, and Mr. Snow drew a chair in front of Maria and watched her try to dry away her tears. He moved a little to the right, that the light of the lamp which was behind him might fall upon her face.

"Now just you have the goodness to tell me what it is that's the matter."

"I-I am low spirited, I think," said Maria, her voice subdued and weak now.

"Low spirited!" echoed Mr. Snow. "Then I'd get high spirited if I were you. I wish there had never been such a thing as spirits invented, for my part! A nice excuse it is for you ladies to sigh and groan half your time, instead of being rational and merry, as you ought to be. A woman of your sense ought to be above it, Mrs. George Godolphin."

"Mr. Snow," interrupted a troublesome little voice, "papa's gone back to London. He went without saying good-by to Meta!" "Ah! Miss Meta had been naughty, I expect.'

Meta shook her head very decisively in the negative, but Mr. Snow had turned to Maria.

"And so you were crying after that roving husband of yours! I guessed as much. He nearly ran over me at the gate. Step in and see my wife, will you, Snow ?' said he. She wants tonics, or something. You don't want tonics half as much as you want common sense, Mrs. George Godolphin."

"I am so weak," was her feeble excuse. "A little thing upsets me now."

66

Well, and what can you expect? If I sat over my surgery fire all day stewing and fretting, a pretty fit doctor I should soon become for my patients! I wonder you”

"Have you looked at my new black frock, Mr. Snow ?"

She was a young lady that would be attended to, let who would go without attention. She had lifted up her white pinafore and stood in front of him, waiting for the frock to be admired.

"Very smart indeed!" replied Mr. Snow. "It's not smart," spoke Meta, resentfully.

"My smart frocks are put away in the drawers. It is for Uncle Thomas, Mr. Snow! Mr. Snow, Uncle Thomas is in heaven now." "Ay, child, that he is.

was in bed."

And it's time that Miss Meta Godolphin

More resentment. "I sat up because papa was going. He said I was to. Mr. Snow, Uncle Thomas has sent me a nice book; a Bible. Mamma says I am never to forget to read in it night and morning; always, always; when she's gone to be with Uncle Thomas in heaven."

Mr. Snow rose, marched to the door, and took upon himself to call Margery, asking whether she deemed it conducive to the health of young damsels to keep them out of bed to that hour. Margery came in a temper: it was her master's fault; he would keep her up: and she supposed when he had got the child to himself over in them Botany Bay lands, and she, Margery, not at hand to see to things, he'd be for keeping her up till midnight.

"Then you don't mean to go yourself?" cried Mr. Snow.

No she didn't, Margery answered. Not unless she took leave of her senses, and went off afore they come back to her. She could see enough of thieves at home here, and of elephants too. Anybody as liked to pay sixpence to a travelling caravan could feast their eyes on one o' them beasts-and much good might it do 'em!

There was a battle with Miss Meta. She did not want to go to bed, and she resented the interference of a stranger. Margery was carrying her off, crying, shrieking, and-the truth must be told-kicking, when Maria rose. "Put her down an instant, Margery."

She stooped and gathered the child in her loving arms. A minute given to the subsiding of Miss Meta's grief, or temper, whichever you like to call it, and then Maria whispered in her ear.

"Be good for my sake, darling. I am not well; I think I am getting worse, Meta. Don't grieve mamma while she is with you. Say good night to Mr. Snow."

Loving and obedient, and with a graciousness of spirit that many, far older, might have taken a pattern from, the child ran up to Mr. Snow, her hand held out, the tears of rebellion drying on her cheeks. "I'm going for mamma. Good night, Mr. Snow."