Memory was carrying him back some dozen years, to the hour when his mother lay upon the bed of death. Her face was pale as the white robes that surrounded her; but there was a holy light resting on every feature, which had made such an impression on the boy's mind, that he had never forgotten it. He knew as he stood by her side that she must die;—that, the transparent hand closely clasping his would soon become the food for worms;—that the voice now feebly lisping words of love and counsel would soon be silenced for aye; but he could not weep. She was so happy, rejoicing that she was soon to be in the presence of her Saviour, and to join the husband and babes who had gone before her to glory; her death seemed such a fitting end to a life like hers; humble, active, trusting, that he felt it would be selfish to wish her to stay. Again, he heard her dying voice; committing him and her little Gertrude to the care of the Shepherd of Israel; again he saw her eyes, dim with the film of dissolving nature, turn to his with the parting injunction, "Edward I leave Gertrude to you as a sacred legacy, teach her to fear God and keep his commandments, I shall expect to meet you both in heaven." "What in the world are you thinking of, Chum?" asked Paul in a gay tone, tossing, as he spoke, his mother's letter on the table. "You've sighed and sighed like a heart-broken maiden." "I was thinking of my mother," was the serious reply. "Though she has been dead a dozen years, she still exists in my mind as the embodyment of every womanly virtue. If my sister lives to imitate her, I shall be happier than I deserve to be." Dudley arose from his seat, looking graver than he was wont, and crossing the room to where his companion sat, he put his mother's letter into Wallingford's hand, murmuring: "You have made me ashamed of what I said." He spoke earnestly, adding with a bright flush, "You're my good genius, Chum, and have been for six years. You must read what mother says about you. Even she, blind to my faults as her love makes her, admits that I might be better if I would imitate my friend more closely. What I shall do when you are not by, I can scarcely conceive." Wallingford grasped the hand which had given him the letter, saying earnestly: "No mother could have a son more frank to confess an error. Now the shower is over, shall we walk again?" "Yes, I can spare half an hour." My dear reader, I will improve the time of their absence by relating briefly a history of the two friends I have introduced to your acquaintance.