tarry, wait for it, for in the end it shall speak and not lie, it shall surely come, it shall not tarry.’ It was early morning I know, then, it was so quiet and cool, and my mother was fast asleep in the chair by my bedside; but it wasn’t only a dream of mine. I know it wasn’t a dream. Then I fell into a deep sleep, and only woke after afternoon chapel; and the Doctor came and gave me the sacrament. I told him and my mother I should get well—I knew I should; but I couldn’t tell them why. Tom,” said Arthur, gently, after another minute, “do you see why I could not grieve now to see my dearest friend die? It can’t be—it isn’t, all fever or illness. God would never have let me see it so clear if it wasn’t true. I don’t understand it all yet—it will take me my life and longer to do that—to find out what the work is.” LXXIV. “Hullo, Brown! here’s something for you,” called out the reading man. “Why, your old master, Arnold of Rugby, is dead.” Tom’s hand stopped half-way in his cast, and his line and flies went all tangling round and round his fishing-rod; you might have knocked him over with a feather. Neither of his companions took any notice of him, luckily; and with a violent effort he set to work mechanically to disentangle his line. He felt completely carried off his moral and intellectual legs, as if he had lost his standing-point in the invisible world. Besides which, the deep loving loyalty he felt for his old leader made the shock intensely painful. It was the first great wrench of his life, the first gap which the angel Death had made in his circle, and he felt numbed, and beaten down, and spiritless. Well, well! I believe it was good for him and for many others in like case; who had to learn by that loss, that the soul of man cannot stand or lean upon any human prop, however strong, and wise, and good; but that He upon whom alone it can stand and lean will knock away all such props in His own wise and merciful way, until there is no ground or stay left but Himself, the Rock of Ages, upon whom alone a sure foundation for every soul of man is laid. LXXV. At the school-gates Tom made a dead pause; there was not a soul in the quadrangle—all was lonely, and silent, and sad. So with another effort he strode through the quadrangle, and into the school-house offices. He found the little matron in her room in deep mourning; shook her hand, tried to talk, and moved nervously about; she was evidently thinking of the same subject as he, but he couldn’t begin talking. “Where shall I find Thomas?” said he at last, getting desperate. “In the servants’ hall, I think, sir. But won’t you take anything?” said the matron looking rather disappointed. “No, thank you,” said he, and strode off again to find the old verger, who was sitting in his little den as of old puzzling over hieroglyphics. He looked up through his spectacles, as Tom seized his hand and wrung it. “Ah! you’ve heard all about it, sir, I see,” said he.