Matilda laughed at him a great deal about his proposed expedition to New York, telling him she did not believe that he was serious in saying he entertained it. It was a beautiful night, soft, warm and lovely, the clock was striking ten when Mark arose to depart. “If you will wait a few minutes I will go a little way with you,” said Charles Taylor, he withdrew to another room for his coat, then he rejoined him, passed his arm in Mark Blakely’s and went out with him. “Is this New York project a joke?” asked Charles. “Indeed, no, I have not quite made up my mind to go, I think I shall; if so, I shall go in a week from this, why should I not go, I have no settled home, no ties?” “Should you not, Mark, be the happier if you had a settled home; you might form ties, I think a roving life must be a very undesirable one.” “It is one I was never fitted for, my inclination would lead me to love home and domestic happiness, but as you know, I put that out of my power.” “For a time, but that is over, you might marry again.” “I do not think I ever shall,” returned Mark Blakely, feeling half prompted to tell his unsuspicious friend that his own sister was the barrier. “You have never married,” he resumed, allowing the impulse to die away. Charles Taylor shook his head; “the cases are different,” he said: “In your wife you lost one whom you could not regret.” “Don’t call her by that name Charles;” burst forth Mark Blakely. “And in Janey I lost one who was all the world to me who could never be replaced,” Charles resumed, after a pause; “the cases were widely different.” “Yes, widely different,” assented Mark Blakely, they walked on in silence, each buried in his own thoughts, at the commencement of the road, Mark Blakely stopped, and took Charles Taylor’s hand in his, “you shall not come any farther with me.” Charles stopped also, he had not intended to go farther. “You shall really go to New York then.” “I believe I shall.” “Take my blessing with you, then Blakely we may never meet again in this world.” “What!” exclaimed Mark. “The medical men entertain hopes that my life may not be terminated so speedily, I believe that a few months will end it, I may not live to welcome you home.” It was the first intimation Mark Blakely had received of Charles fatal malady, Charles explained to him; he was overwhelmed. “Oh my friend! my friend! can not death be coaxed to spare you!” he called out in excitement, how many have vainly echoed the same cry! A few more words, a long grasp of the lingering hands, and they parted, Charles with a God speed, Mark with a different prayer, a God save upon his lips. Mark Blakely turned to the road, Charles towards home. George Taylor’s dinner-table was spacious, but the absence of one person from it was conspicuous. Mr. Blakely’s chair was still left. “He would come yet.” George said there was no clergyman present, and Charles Taylor said the grace, he sat at the foot of the table opposite his cousin.