Mr. Henry, who displayed and felt entire calm throughout the interview, then proceeded to mention the strides his own sickness had been making. He was quite aware of the nature of his (possibly) inherited malady; recent symptoms had brought the knowledge to him. But, had he been differently circumstanced, in the enjoyment of past immunity from work and care and fear, it might not have shown itself for years and years. As it was—he frankly spoke of what the ending must in all probability soon be. The physician did not say much; it is not customary to do so; but when Mr. Henry went, he had gathered that death sooner or later must come to him. It gave him no shock: he had seemed to know beforehand what the fiat would be. Notwithstanding, it was altogether a very serious vista, and yet a sensation of strange peace seemed to fill his heart. How he had shrunk from ascertaining the true nature of his disease, from the consequent absolute cessation from toil, which he knew would be imposed, he alone knew. All for the sake of his mother, her home, her interests. Over and over again he had asked himself, who would work for them when he could not. As if the delay would alter the evil, it was for this he had put off seeking to know the truth; he had dreaded it as one, unprepared, dreads death; and now that it was spoken, instead of the torment and trouble it might have brought, he felt nothing but resignation and sweet peace. It was but another great mercy, this feeling, from the loving and merciful Father: and Mr. Henry had learnt to trust Him in all things, with the simple, reliant, undoubting trust that a child feels in its earthly parents; in darkness as well as light; in gloom as well as brightness. Oh, my boys, how I wish I could make you understand what this trust is, and how to acquire it! It is the one great blessing in life; the only true peace; a pearl of great price. It is a sure and safe refuge; an ever-present comfort in sunshine and in storm; a resort that is never closed. Every grief, every care, every doubt, had Henry Paradyne learnt to carry _there_, and he knew that it could not fail him. "Things seem dark and dreary; I cannot see my way; undertake for me, Lord!" had been latterly the burden of his prayer. He never failed to rise up comforted, to _know_ that God had been with him, lending His gracious ear, listening compassionately to his cry: there were times when he seemed to have been talking with Him face to face, a joy so heavenly was diffused throughout his spirit. My boys, you perhaps hold an idea that religion (as it is very commonly called) is but a gloomy thing; let me tell you that the real religion, as experienced by those who live thus near to God, is as a very light of happiness. It will not come to you all at once; but it will surely come with time if you earnestly desire it. Think what it is to possess a refuge _always_, one that cannot fail! In danger and sorrow, in doubt and difficulty, in