"I would rather not be, I am so tired, so very, very weary; I am not strong to battle for the truth, as you are, Geoffrey. It is so nice to lie here and think that all the work and toil is over, and I am only waiting for him to come. He is coming fast now; when it is quiet, I can hear his footsteps and his voice. He will take me right up in his arms, and I will put my head on his breast while he is carrying me home. Isn’t he come yet? Don’t you hear him calling? Don’t you see him coming? He is very, very near now." They _did_ perceive his coming; they saw his approaches in the fast glazing eye, in the death-damp on the forehead; they heard him in the gasping breath. Father Paul stepped forward and bent over him. "Yes, my child, he _is_ coming; he is almost here. Hast thou no fear?" A look of surprise passed over the child’s face. "Why, it is Jesus! I cannot fear Jesus! I love him so, and I have waited for him so long! I am so glad that you love him too! Now we will all meet in the Beautiful Land--kind Dick and all, all, every one!" And his eye glanced at each in turn, resting lovingly, but searchingly, on every face, as if he would read there the secret of the heart, and know if that soul were at peace with its Maker. Coming, coming, faster and faster, nearer and nearer, the footsteps were at the door; they had entered; the unbidden guest was in their midst. He would not depart alone. All felt his presence, and there was silence, only broken by the gasping breath, each moment growing shorter. The very wind had lulled, and listened with them. Then they came--those last words which echo so long in desolate hearts, which we remember so much longer than any other utterances of our beloved. Low, but clear and distinct, they sounded in the stillness. There was awe, joy, and great wonder in the tone: "_Hush! hark! see!_" They were hushed; no sound was heard, save the gentle crackle and hiss of the logs on the hearth; they saw--the little white form lying on its pillows, with the red firelight beaming on opened, sightless eyes, parted breathless lips. _He_ hearkened, and heard ’the angels’ song of welcome--_he_ looked, and beheld the face of his Saviour! *CHAPTER XXI.* _*Father Paul.*_ There was no noisy grief, no boisterous lamentation when, one lovely spring morning, the small funeral-train left the soldier’s cottage, and passed through the forest-paths toward the last resting-place of the little Lollard martyr. Dick and Bertrand had dug the grave in just such a spot as a child might choose to rest in after a long day of happiness--a glade with a southern slope, purpled with violets, and enlivened by a little brook, which leaped out of a thicket of wild roses, and, after dancing awhile in the sunshine, and hugging the worn rocks as though it loved them, plunged again into obscurity, under the arms of a great overspreading willow, and went dancing on to the sea.