"I asked him presently, as soon as I could, what he had wished to see me for. I don't know whether he heard me or not; he lay with his eyes half closed, breathing with difficulty. I doubted whether he would speak again; and indeed, for myself, I had heard and seen enough to satisfy me entirely; — for the sake of the group around the bed, I could have desired something further. They kept perfect stillness; awed, I think, by a profession of faith such as they had never heard before. They and I stood watching him, and at the end of a few minutes, not more than ten or fifteen, he opened his eyes, and with sudden life and strength rose up half-way in bed, exclaiming, 'Thanks to be God for his unspeakable gift!' — and then fell back — just dead." The old gentleman's voice was husky as he finished, for Alice and Ellen were both weeping, and John Humphreys had covered his face with his hands. "I have felt," said the old gentleman, presently, "as if I could have shouted out his words — his dying words — all the way as I came home. My little girl," said he, drawing Ellen to him, "do you know the meaning of those sweet things of which little John Dolan's mind was so full?" Ellen did not speak. "Do you know what it is to be a sinner? — and what it is to be a forgiven child of God?" "I believe I do, Sir," Ellen said. He kissed her forehand and blessed her; and then said, "Let us pray." It was late; the servants had gone to bed, and they were alone. Oh! what a thanksgiving Mr. Humphreys poured forth for that "unspeakable gift!" — that they, every one there, had been made to know and rejoice in it; for the poor little boy, rich in faith, who had just gone home in the same rejoicing; for their own loved ones who were there already; and for the hope of joining them soon in safety and joy, to sing with them the "new song" for ever and ever. There were no dry eyes in the room. And when they arose, Mr. Humpreys, after giving his daughter the usual kiss for good night, gave one to Ellen too, which he had never done before, and then going to his son, and laying both hands on his shoulders, kissed his cheek also; then silently took his candle and went. They lingered a little while after he was gone, standing round the fire as if loth to part, but in grave silence, each busy with his own thoughts. Alice's ended by fixing on her brother, for, laying her hand and her head carelessly on his shoulder, she said, "And so you have been well all this time, John?" He turned his face towards her without speaking, but Ellen as well as his sister saw the look of love with which he answered her question, rather of endearment than inquiry; and from that minute Ellen's mind was made up as to the doubt which had troubled her. She went to bed quite satisfied that her new brother was a decided acquisition. CHAPTER XXVII. The jingling of sleigh-bells.