Accordingly, early next morning, Alfred Gray was riding briskly along through the pleasant green lanes which led toward his native village. It was the middle of June, bright, warm, sunny weather; and the young man's spirits was unusually gay, everything around him tending to heighten the delight which the good news he carried had inspired him with. The pony stepped out bravely, and was only checked when Alfred came in sight of the dear old home of his childhood, and heard the well-known chimes calling the villagers to their morning service, for it was Sunday. Then for a few moments the young man proceeded more slowly, and his countenance wore a more saddened look, as the blessed recollections of early loves and affections with which the scene was associated in his mind, claimed their power over all other thoughts. The voice of an old friend, from an apple-orchard hard by, recalled him from his reveries. He shook hands through the hedge. "I will come and see you in the evening, Fred. I must hasten on now. She will go to church this morning, and I must go with her." "Who?" asked the other. Alfred pointed to the cottage where Susan Harvey dwelt. "I bring her good news--I have a letter. Martin is living and well." The friend shook his head. Alfred dismounted, and walked towards Susan Harvey's cottage. The door was closed, and when he looked through the window he could see no one inside. He lifted the latch softly and entered. There was no one there; but his entrance had been heard, and a moment after, a fine stout lad came out of the inner chamber, took Alfred's proffered hand, and in answer to his inquiries, burst into tears. "She says she cannot live long, sir; but she told me last night, that before she died, you would come and tell us news of father. She has been saying all the past week that we should hear from him soon." Whilst the boy spoke, Alfred heard a weak voice, calling his name from the inner room. "Go in," he said, "and tell her I am here." The boy did so, and then beckoned him to enter. Susan's submissive features were but little changed, from the time when her husband was taken from her; but the weak and wasted form that strove to raise itself in vain, as Alfred approached the bed-side, too plainly revealed that the struggle was drawing to a close--that the time of rest was at hand. "Thank God, you are come," she said; "you have heard from him? Tell me quickly, for my time is short." "I come to tell you good news, Susan. You may yet be restored to him." "I shall not see Martin in this world again, Mr. Gray; but I shall close my eyes in peace. If you know where he is, and can tell me that my boy shall go and be with him, and tell him how, through these long weary years, we loved him, and thought of him, and prayed for him--" Here she broke off, and beckoned the boy to her. She held his hands within her own, whilst Alfred Gray read from the letter all that would comfort her.