'They prayed long and earnestly, that sorrowful mother and son. At length a light broke over the pallid countenance of the youth; he raised his head slowly and with difficulty from that dear mother's supporting arms, and gazed into her tearful eyes with a look of unutterable love. "Mother, blessed mother," he whispered, "the agony is over; I feel calm and happy now. Our prayers are accepted; the divine peace which Christ bestowed upon His disciples, His last, best gift, is filling my heart, and the anger I felt at my dear father's unjust suspicions is lost in pity and love. My sorrows are over; his, alas! are to come. To you, dearest mother, I leave the task of reconciliation. You will vindicate my memory, and teach him to respect me in death. And that miserable old man--tell him to deal gently with him for my sake. Tell him that I forgive him, that he must forgive him also, and lead the sinner back to God." He paused, and panted for breath. "George," cried the terrified mother, "you are ill; let me send for Dr. Aldis, and call your father." '"Too late! who can heal a broken heart? It will soon be over. God is dealing very gently with me, beloved mother. Let the thought console you that you have a son in heaven. But my father, my dear, unhappy father, may God comfort him! It grows very dark; I cannot see your sweet face, mother, but all around is joy and peace." 'A shade passed over the noble young face, a tremor shook the slight frame of the dying boy, and the enfranchized spirit, throwing off the last coil of clay, followed the unseen messenger to the land of the hereafter. 'A shriek, a loud, piercing shriek, rang through the silent house. Dr. Leatrim started from his knees and rushed up-stairs. The next moment he was standing beside the bed of his son, upon which his wife was sitting with the head of the dead boy in her lap. 'The Doctor staggered like a drunken man, and held to the bed-post for support. He comprehended the awful truth at a glance, but the conviction was too terrible to receive at once. It was an illusion of the senses, a ghastly vision; it was too dreadful to be a hard, everyday fact. He had poured out his soul to God; had deplored to the great Judge that his sentence had been too severe, that kindness would have done more to soften the proud heart of the boy than the violent course he had adopted. He had just made up his mind to go to George, and once more address him with love and confidence, when that horrid cry, wrung from a mother's breaking heart, closed the doors of mercy for ever, and left him desolate and childless. '"Mary," he gasped out, "do not say that he is dead! It is but sleep or exhaustion. It cannot be that he is dead?"