“You be going to see my old master and mistress sir,” he said dashing some rebellious moisture from his eyes. “Mr. Charles do you remember it, my poor mistress sat here in this porch the very day she died.” “I remember it well, George. I am dying quietly, thank God, as my mother died.” “And what a blessing it is when folks can die quietly with their conscience, and all about ’em at peace,” ejaculated George. “I am on the threshold of a better world, George,” was his quiet answer, “one where sorrow cannot enter.” George sat for some little time on the bench talking to him, they had gone back in thought to old times, to the illness and death of his mother, to the long gone scenes of the past, whether of pleasure or pain--a past which for us all seems to bear a charm when recalled to the memory which it had never borne; at length George arose to depart, declining to remain longer; Charles was in his armchair seated by the fire as Mary entered the room, his face would have been utterly colorless save for the bluish tinge which had settled there a tinge distinguishable even in the red blaze. “Have you come back alone,” asked Charles, turning towards her. “George Taylor accompanied me as far as the head of the street. Have you had your medicine, Charles?” “Yes.” Mary drew a chair near to him, and sat down, glancing almost stealthily at him; when this ominous look appears on the human face we do not like to look into it too boldly lest its owner, so soon to be called away, may read the fiat in our own dread countenance, she need not have feared its effects, had he done so, on Charles Taylor. “How are you feeling to night?” somewhat abruptly asked Mary. “Never better of late days; it seems as if ease both of mind and body has come to me.” Mary turned her eyes from the fire that the tears rising in them might not be seen to glisten, and exclaimed: “What a misfortune.” “A misfortune to be taken to my rest, to the good God who has so loved and kept me here. A few minutes before you came in I fell into a doze and I dreamt I saw Jesus Christ standing by the window waiting for me, he had his hand stretched out to me with a smile, so vivid had been the impression that when I awoke, I thought it was a reality. Death a misfortune! no, Mary, not for me.” Mary rang the bell for lights to be brought in, Charles, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, bent his head upon his hand and became lost in the imagination of glories that might so soon open to him, bright forms were flitting around a throne of wondrous beauty, golden harps in their hands, and in one of them, her harp idle, her radiant face turned as if watching for one who might be coming, he seemed to recognize Janey. A misfortune for the good to die! No.