His eyes, small and black in the death intensity, now burn in the countenance of the bishop, who stands at the foot of the bed, repeating at intervals, in answer to that anguished gaze, such texts of Scripture as promise redemption by faith. On his right hand, within the shadow of the curtain, sits Sophie, very pale and still, her hands clasped with awe. On his left hand stands Raymond, leaning his elbow on the head-board and bowing his face upon his open hand, while the heave and fall of his chest silently betray the son’s sorrow for the father. By the side of Raymond, and with her fingers clasped in his hand, which he presses from time to time as a surge of emotion agitates him, stands Hagar; but her crimson cheek and glittering eye display more excitement than awe, in the death scene she witnesses. “You love him, Hagar!” at last very low whispered the dying man. Hagar’s cheek paled, while her fingers quivered slightly in the hand of Raymond. “Love him—_gently_, Hagar,” then he said, and turned his eyes on Sophie, while his sallow hand crept by the fingers towards her. She saw and raised the hand, rubbed it, pressed it between her own, but it grew colder in her clasp. “Good-bye, my guardian angel,” he said very softly, and turned his troubled eye again upon the bishop. Sophie saw that troubled glance, and silently prayed that the perturbed spirit might pass in peace. At last at a motion from the bishop all sank upon their knees. But Sophie, while she knelt, could not withdraw her gaze from the eyes that still hopeless sought comfort in _her_ eyes. The prayers for the dying were commenced, and as they progressed Sophie loved to see the anguish of expression soften away from his face—his brow grew calm, his eye steady, and she felt that at last his soul had found peace in believing. It was in a smile his eyes faded away from hers—in a smile that his spirit passed away, as sometimes after a stormy day the sun glances out beneath a bank of clouds, and smiling a good night, sinks. When they arose from their knees, the clay was vacant. The bishop closed the empty eyes, and then by a motion marshalled the family all from the room. Raymond at once sought his own chamber. The bishop followed Sophie into the parlor. Hagar went out into the dining-room to assist Mrs. Buncombe, who was now at the Hall, taking charge of its housekeeping just at this crisis. The tea-table was being set in great style under her direction—this was in honor of the bishop’s presence in the house. Hagar at once lent her a cheerful assistance. She began powdering some delicate tarts with loaf sugar. Thus life and death, luxury and decay, the table and the coffin, the most awful event of a lifetime, the most trivial occurrences of the moment, jostle each other, nor may either be entirely crowded off the stage of existence. Mrs. Buncombe looked very grave, and at last she said half reprovingly to Hagar,