“William! here is my life!” And he pointed to Susan. “Let no man rob me of it if one mother really bore us.” It went through William's heart like a burning arrow. And this was why George had taken him to their mother's grave. That flashed across him, too. The poor sulky fellow's head was seen to rise inch by inch till he held it as erect as a king's. “Never!” he cried, half shouting, half weeping. “Never, s'help me God! She's my sister from this hour--no more, no less. And may the red blight fall on my arm and my heart, if I or any man takes her from you--any man!” he cried, his temples flushing and his eye glittering; “sooner than a hundred men should take her from you while I am here I'd die at their feet a hundred times.” Well done, sullen and rugged but honest man; the capital temptation of your life is wrestled with and thrown. That is always to every man a close, a deadly, a bitter struggle; and we must all wade through this deep water at one hour or another of our lives. It is as surely our fate as it is one day to die. It is a noble sight to see an honest man “cleave his own heart in twain, and fling away the baser part of it.” These words, that burst from William's better heart, knocked at his brother's you may be sure. He came to William, “I believe you,” said he; “I trust you, I thank you.” Then he held out his hand; but nature would have more than that, in a moment his arm was round his brother's neck, where it had not been, this many a year. He withdrew it as quickly, half ashamed; and Anne Fielding's two sons grasped one another's hands, and holding hands turned away their heads and tried to hide their eyes. They are stronger than bond, deed or indenture, these fleshly compacts written by moist eyes, stamped by the grip of eloquent hands, in those moments full of soul when men's hearts beat from their bosoms to their fingers' ends. Isaac Levi came to the brothers, and said to William, “Yes, I will now,” and then he went slowly and thoughtfully away to his own house. “And now,” faltered George, “I feel strong enough to go, and I'll go.” He looked round at all the familiar objects he was leaving, as if to bid them farewell; and last, while every eye watched his movements, he walked slowly up to his grandfather's chair. “Grandfather,” said he, “I am going a long journey, and mayhap shall never see you again; speak a word to me before I go.” The impassive old man took no notice, so Susan came to him. “Grandfather, speak to George; poor George is going into a far country.” When she had repeated this in his ear their grandfather looked up for a moment. “George, fetch me some snuff from where you're going.” A spasm crossed George's face; he was not to have a word of good omen from the aged man. “Friends,” said he, looking appealingly to all the rest, Meadows included, “I wanted him to say God bless you, but snuff is all his thought now. Well, old man, George won't forget your last word, such as 'tis.”