"Not pleasant!" repeated Mrs. Gall, rather shocked at the apparently light tone. "Can you imagine anything more dreadful? A mistake, or calamity, so long as it is confined to this world, is not beyond the pale of remedy; but—when it comes to rushing into the next! William, I am sure that thinking of that poor mistaken youth has made my head worse." William Gall gave no particular reply; his mother thought he was sleepy, and said no more. Sleepy! with the consciousness on his soul of what he was about to do! with the awful amount of responsibility, already making itself heard, that was weighing him down! There was no such blessing as sleep for him. It might be the last time he should ever, in life, be thus with his mother. It might be his last evening on earth. Oh, life looked very fair, now that he was possibly about to quit it. Scenes of the past and present, pleasant realities of existence, seemed to come tumbling into his mind with strange persistency. The "old house at home," with its home comforts and home affections; the days at Orville College with their hopes and interests; the future career he had been rather given in anticipation, to carve out for himself. Why, what a mockery it seemed! Here was he, a candidate (though he had never much thought he should get it) for the Orville prize—long before the time for bestowing it came, he might be cold in his grave, half forgotten! What a mockery seemed all things, if it came to that: his education at all; his training; nay, even his having been born—were this to be the ending! The more serious, solemn part that Mr. Bouncely had enlarged on in the other case, of what might come after death, William Gall simply dared not glance at. No wonder that his brow grew hotter and hotter. "I'll go to my room, I think," he quietly said, rising, as his reflections became keen and more keen, his assumption of calm equanimity simply intolerable. "Good night, mother, dear." She was surprised at the abrupt salutation; at the long, passionate kiss he pressed upon her lips; at the yearning, singular love in his eyes. But before she could say anything, he was gone. Gone to shut himself in his own room, with his troubles and his fear. Not fear of the shot itself or the pain it might bring; William Gall was of a sufficiently brave nature; but fear of the results that might follow in its wake—of the ETERNITY he might be flying into. And yet, so powerful upon him was received custom, the conventionalities of the world; so great a dread had he, in common with others, of being pointed at as a coward, that he let the thing go on, and would not stop it. An almost irrepressible wish had come over him, while he was with his mother, to tell the truth to her; but that might not be, and he thrust it back again.