The clergyman pressed in silence the feverish hand held out to him; he could not at that moment reply. “We shall be so happy, if I only get well! You do not know how we have missed you! You will—will you not?—be the pilgrim’s guide again!” “You have come to a part of your journey, my beloved pupil, in which God can alone be your guide.” He felt that the deep eyes of Ernest were riveted upon him; he could not endure to meet their inquiring gaze. Shading his own with his hand, he continued: “When Christian had passed through the land of Beulah, and drew near to the celestial city, he saw a river flowing before him—” “The river of death!” murmured Ernest, and for some moments there was profound silence in the room. It was first broken by the voice of the sufferer. “Is there no chance of my recovery?” “I fear none,” faltered the clergyman. “And how long do the doctors think that this will last?” “Not many days,” replied Mr. Ewart, in a tone scarcely audible. Again there was a long solemn silence. “I thank you for telling me this,” said Ernest at last. “I little thought that I was so near the end of my pilgrimage—that I was so very near my rest. I have often wondered,” he added faintly, “how I should meet this hour—whether in joy, or in trouble and fear. I feel little of either just now—perhaps because I am weak and in pain—but a quiet trust in my Saviour, because, however sinful I have been, I know, I feel that I love Him!” There are many lying on a sick-bed, who could hardly give a reason for the hope that is in them—whose feeble minds have scarcely power to grasp the simplest text—to whom it would be impossible to review their past lives; but who can yet rest calmly and securely on the thought, “_Lord, Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest that I love Thee!_” After a while, the sufferer spoke again. “Where is Charley? Why is he not with me?” “It was feared that his grief might agitate you.” “Poor dear Charley!” said Ernest with tenderness; “it will be a pleasure to him now to think that we always have loved one another. But I should greatly like to see him; I have so much to say to him before we part.” “I will call him,” said Mr. Ewart, rising. He found poor Charles weeping at the door. “You must command yourself, dear boy, for his sake. Ernest has asked to see you.” Charles dashed the drops from his eyes, and made a strong effort to be calm, though the convulsive quivering of his lip showed the intensity of his feelings. With noiseless step he glided to the bed-side: his brother received him with a faint smile. “Heaven orders all things well, Charley,” he whispered; “I always felt that you were better fitted than I to be the Lord of Fontonore. The time which we have spent together will seem to you soon like a strange dream that is past; but you will not forget me, Charley, mine own brother—you will not forget me?” Charles hid his face in his hands.