Hagar, at once spirited and delicate, did not repel this charge, nor did her mind fly back to the many nights of sleeplessness she had passed in the sick chamber of his father while Raymond slumbered soundly in his bed; nor did she know that though she had felt very _tenderly_ she had acted _kindly_, while the son who really loved his father so tenderly loved _himself_ as well, and took his rest. “Have I hurt you, Hagar?” at last he said gently. “No, I do not know that you have.” “_Have_ I hurt you, Hagar?” he said, now sadly. “No, no; I am not sensitive—not very tender of myself any more than of others. No, you do not understand me—that I feel _life_ so much more than death—so much _life_ everywhere. Why, Raymond, my feeling about _my own death_ is that of escape, flight, revel in liberty and light. I stand upon the banks of our river sometimes, and feel like gathering myself up for a leap across the flood; yet there I stand, fast fettered by flesh. I stand some mornings at early dawn at my chamber window, and, gazing rapturously at the morning star, my spirit uneasily flaps its wings for a flight! Yet there I stand fast tied to the body; so wild and strong is the spirit, and so heavy and fast its chains.” Yes, she spoke truly—so wild, and strong, and fierce was the spirit, whose fire was to be quenched in tears of blood dropped slowly from the heart. Sophie now came in, and observing Hagar, said, “Ah! it is right for you to be here, my love; we have a common sorrow, and I feel that _I_ should not have gone apart;” and she sat down with them. The funeral of John Huss Withers took place on the fifth day from his death. Dr. Otterbuck remained to officiate. Mr. Buncombe of course succeeded him in the rectorship of the parish of the Crucifixion. It was during this visit of the bishop that the Parish Church, enlarged and repaired, was re-christened and dedicated under the name of the Ascension. This was done through the suggestion of Mr. Buncombe and the vestry. A year passed away. CHAPTER XIX. THE CHASE. “Listening how the hounds and horn Cheerily rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill Through the high wood echoing shrill.” MILTON.