All the discontent and melancholy of Sir William passed away. He loved Mabel more fondly than ever, even for the self imposed penance. She might have decked herself in splendid attire to meet her lord, but the lowly garb secured his affections more firmly. The rich sandals of the time might have confined her feet, but naked as they were, Sir William gazed more proudly upon them. They walked on together. Mabel knew Sir Osmund’s fate, by the very air of Sir William, but she questioned him not. A full bright cloud now began to widen and widen over the stately towers of Haigh Hall. Sir William in silence pointed to it as a happy omen, and as its deep tints were reflected upon the structure, glory and fortune seemed to hover over it. They were passing a narrow winding, into the plantations, when their younger boy rushed forth. “Father, father, bless your little son.” “Hugh, my beautiful and brave boy, dost thou know me?” The knight looked oft, in sorrow as well as pride, on the boy’s countenance; it was so delicately fair, that the very life seemed trembling on it. “Father, I could die this morning, I am so happy.” The knight started. “Die! my little Hugh. No, no, you will live to be a warrior.” Loud were the acclamations raised by the retainers, as Sir William and his lady appeared. A whole week was devoted to festivity and merriment, and all were happy. Regularly every week, Mabel repaired barefoot and bare-legged to the Cross, which still stands associated with her name. The penance gave happiness. For months she had her sad moments, and Sir William, with all his love and attention, could not wile away the dark spirit of grief and remorse. But, by degrees, time and religion banished the evil spirit, and even in her solitary moments, no longer did it haunt her. In a few weeks after the brave knight’s return, little Hugh Bradshaigh was taken from earth. One morning, as the sun was shining brightly, and the birds were merry of note, his mother went to awake him to receive her blessing; but he had already received the blessing of angels, and Jesus:--he was dead. The treatment and the sorrows which had befallen him, in his former years, had been too much for his young soul; and as a bird, which has with difficulty braved the sternness of winter, dies when genial spring comes, with its blossoms and hymns, and its last note is faintly raised from its green bed of leaves, up to the laughing sky; so, as soon as happiness visited him, little Hugh pined away, as if every touch, every voice of affection raised him from earth. So strange is life, that he might not have died so soon, but for his father’s return. Yes, affection kills the mournful young. Every gentle stroke, as his mother sheds the fair hair of the boy, is a touch of death; languid and slow, but sure. Hugh Bradshaigh’s pillow was, ever after, unpressed by any head, and for hours Sir William and his lady sat by the little white couch, as if his spirit were there.