"Oh, Mr. St. John! mamma has striven to bring us up not to fear death. What would have been the use of her lessons, had she thought I should run in terror from it when it came?" "She ought not to have told you--she ought not to have told you!" was the continued burden of Mr. St. John's song. "You may get well yet." "Then there is no harm done. But, with death near, would you have had me, the only one it concerns, left in ignorance to meet it, not knowing it was there? Mamma has not waited herself for death--as she has done, you know, for years--without learning a better creed than that." Mr. St. John made no reply, and Henry went on: "I have had such a pleasant night with mamma. She read to me parts of the Revelation; and in talking of the glories which I may soon see, will you believe that I almost forgot my pain? She says how thankful she is now, that she has been enabled to train me up more carefully than many boys are trained--to think more of God." "You are a strange boy," interrupted Sir. St. John. "In what way am I strange?" "To anticipate death in that tone of cool ease. Have you no regrets to leave behind you?" "Many regrets; but they seemed to fade into insignificance last night, while mamma was talking with me. It is best that they should." "Henry, it strikes me that you have had your griefs and troubles, inexperienced as you are," resumed Mr. St. John. "Oh yes, I have," he answered, betrayed into an earnestness, incompatible with cautious reserve. "Some of the college boys have not suffered me to lead a pleasant life with them," he continued, more calmly; "and then there has been my father's gradually straitening income." "I think there must have been some other grief than these," was Mr. St. John's remark. "What other grief could there have been?" "I know but of one. And you are over young for that." "Of course I am; too young," was the eager answer. "That is enough," quietly returned Mr. St. John; "I did not _tell_ you to betray yourself. Nay, Henry, don't shrink from me; let me hear it: it will be better and happier for you that I should." "There is nothing--I don't know what you mean--what are you talking of, Mr. St. John?" was the incoherent answer. "Harry, my poor boy, I know almost as much as you," he whispered. "I know what it is, and who it is. Georgie Beauclerc. There; you cannot tell me much, you see." Henry Arkell laid his hand across his face and aching eyes; his chest was heaving with emotion. Mr. St. John leaned over him, not less tenderly than a mother. "You should not have wasted your love upon _her_: she is a heartless girl. I expect she drew you on, and then turned round and said she did not mean it." "Oh yes, she did draw me on," he replied, in a tone full of anguish; "otherwise, I never----But it was my fault also. I ought to have remembered the many barriers that divided us; the----"