the heart of the new-made bride on the day of her espousals.

And thus, day by day, and hour by hour, he faded away before our watchful eyes. I was sitting by his side one evening, little thinking that the end was so near at hand. I had given him the Holy Communion that morning; and, although he had been very ill and restless all the day, he seemed somewhat easier towards night. As I sat by the side of his bed, but drawn a little back, I could see his lips moving in prayer, although he was too weak to use the beads which were twined about his fingers. Suddenly he made a motion to me to raise him up a little. I thought it might give him some relief, and so I took him in my arms and laid his head upon my breast. "Ambrose," he said to me all at once, and with a strange yearning earnestness in his voice, "Ambrose, I think it has been all a mistake, a weary, sad mistake; but, please God, it is coming right at last.”

At the moment, I did not understand him or divine his meaning. "What has been all a mistake, Tom, my dear fellow ?" I asked, in astonishment.

He raised his eyes and looked me wistfully in the face. "Oh, this poor wasted life of mine," he answered. "It has been all a sad mistake; but, Ambrose, dear Ambrose," he cried in eager accents, "do you think it is coming right at last? Oh, do you think it is coming right at last?"

I could scarcely answer him for the great sobs which were choking me, but, somehow, I managed to falter through my tears, "Yes, Tom, my dear, dear fellow, it is fast coming right. God knows it is surely coming right."

All at once his arms let go their hold, and his head fell back. As I laid him hastily down I caught one last look of his glazing eyes. I had just time to raise my hand once more in fervent blessing over him ere the solemn shadow passed across his face; and, then, I closed with a reverent touch the bright, dark eyes that had looked their last upon the world, and fell upon my knees to pray for the ransomed soul which had at length, as I humbly hoped and believed, entered into its everlasting rest.

Dear Tom Bowman, happier ten thousand times in thy death than in thy life, farewell to thee! Farewell to thee, till the happy day when, please God, we shall meet once more in that better land, where there shall be no more weeping or tribulation, no more sorrow or pain. I have told thy story because I believe that thou wouldst have wished me to tell it -that all who run may read-that all who read may take warning from thy poor, lost life-may learn that the only path which can lead to happiness is the path of duty and of truth. I trust that I have told that story tenderly-I know that I have told it lovingly, Farewell to thee, dear old friend, a long farewell!

CHAPTER XVI.

BEYOND THE EVERLASTING SHORES.

HERE is a homely proverb to the effect, as well as I remember, that it seldom rains but it pours, and it certainly seemed to be about to be verified in my case at this period. It was little more than a dozen years since Eustace Percy, Tom Bowman, and I had made our boyish promise of eternal friendship, and already I had laid one of the three in an early grave, whilst I began to fear once more that it would not be long ere I should have the same sad office to perform for another of the trio. Soon after the death of poor Tom I began again to grow very uneasy about Eustace. In spite of all our efforts, all our entreaties, he still persevered in leading the same life of wearing and unflagging toil, but it was very evident to me that it could not last much longer. Sir Percy was as unforgiving as ever, and Eustace, inasmuch as he would not consent to share our pittance, was, consequently, altogether dependent upon his own exertions for his support. The nearest approach to a serious misunderstanding which ever arose between us was on this matter; but he was inflexible and, as I have already said, it was a point of extreme delicacy, and one on which it was very difficult for me to urge him. I also discovered, accidentally, that he was supporting, and this out of

his own hard earnings, several poor old people in the neighbourhood. When I remonstrated with him on this subject, and tried to show him that it was more than God expected from him, he silenced me with an argument which I will not repeat, but which brought the blush to my cheek, and made me turn away in silent, but in loving and admiring confusion. And thus, a bright and beautiful example of every Christian virtue, he toiled along the way which he had chosen, the royal way of the cross, turning neither to the right nor to the left, till he should have reached the appointed end. In the bitterness of my grief I was compelled to confess that, unless God should interpose in some way, which I did not foresee, to bring the troubles and the labours of my poor friend to a speedy and a happy close, this end was not very far distant. It was nearer than I thought, and after the sorrow and pain which immediately accompanied it had passed away, happier and more peaceful than I had ever dared to expect. I was sitting in my little study one morning after breakfast. Eustace was opposite to me, preparing himself for his day's labour by going over some of those drudging lessons which he would presist in giving. As I glanced every now and then over the top of my newspaper at him, I thought I had never seen him look so wretchedly ill, so utterly exhausted and worn out; and I remember that, more than once, I covered my face with the paper that he might not see the tear which I could not prevent from trickling down my cheek. After one of these painful reveries, suddenly my eye fell upon a paragraph in the paper which at once absorbed all my attention and engrossed all my energies. I read it through two or three times, in a wondering kind of a way, before I under

stood its full bearing and import; but, at last, I took it all in, and with a loud cry I let the paper fall from my hand. The paragraph which caught my eye was to this effect:-"We regret to learn through the foreign papers that a boat accident, attended with melancholy results, occurred some days ago in the Mediterranean. Mr. Rupert Percy, the eldest son and heir of Sir Percy Percy, of Percy Grange, has been abroad for some time. A few days ago he engaged a pleasure boat for a short cruise on the Mediterranean. The vessel had not been at sea more than a few hours when she was caught in a sudden squall, and, melancholy to relate, all on board were lost. One of the oldest families in the North has thus been plunged into grief and mourning. We understand that the unfortunate gentleman was a youth of brilliant talents and of great promise; and his sad fate is to be the more deplored as it is stated that the present heir to the ancient title and the vast estates of Percy Grange some years ago seceded from the Church of his baptism to the Church of Rome."

Eustace was startled by my cry, and he ran hastily over to my side, thinking that I had been taken ill. After a few hurried words of preparation, I took up the paper and showed him the paragraph which contained an announcement of such immense importance to him, an importance which could scarcely be over-estimated, and which, perhaps, we hardly realized all at once. at a glance, however, how wonderfully the prospects of my friend were changed, and my heart glowed with honest exultation at the thought. Now, indeed, Sir Percy might still harden his heart against his child, still keep him in straitened circumstances as

I saw