By the side of William Carlyle’s dying bed knelt the Lady Isabel. The time was at hand, and the boy was quite reconciled to his fate. Merciful, indeed, is God to dying children! It is astonishing how very readily, when the right means are taken, they may be brought to look with pleasure, rather than fear, upon their unknown journey.

The brilliant hectic, type of the disease, had gone from his cheeks, his features were white and wasted, and his eyes large and bright. His silky brown hair was pushed off his temples, and his little hot hands were thrown outside the bed.

“It won’t be very long to wait, you know, will it, Madame Vine?”

“For what, darling?”

“Before they all come. Papa and mamma, and Lucy, and all of them.”

A jealous feeling shot across her wearied heart. Was she nothing to him? “Do you not care that I should come to you, William?”

“Yes, I hope you will. But do you think we shall know everybody in Heaven? Or will it be only our own relations?”

“Oh, child! I think there will be no relations, as you call it, up there. We can trust all that to God, however it may be.”

William lay looking upward at the sky, apparently in thought, a dark blue, serene sky, from which shone the hot July sun. His bed had been moved toward the window, for he liked to sit in it, and look at the landscape. The window was open now, and the butterflies and bees sported in the summer air.

“I wonder how it will be?” pondered he, aloud. “There will be the beautiful city, its gates of pearl, and its shining precious stones, and its streets of gold; and there will be the clear river, and the trees with their fruits and their healing leaves, and the lovely flowers; and there will be the harps, and music, and singing. And what else will there be?”

“Everything that is desirable and beautiful, William; but, what we may not anticipate here.”

Another pause. “Madame Vine, will Jesus come for me, do you think, or will He send an angel?”

“Jesus has promised to come for His own redeemed—for those who love Him and wait for Him.”

“Yes, yes, and then I shall be happy forever. It will be so pleasant to be there, never to be tired or ill again.”

“Pleasant? Ay! Oh, William! Would that the time were come!”

She was thinking of herself—of her freedom—though the boy knew it not. She buried her face in her hands and continued speaking; William had to bend his ear to catch the faint whisper.

“‘And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying: neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away.’”

“Madame Vine, do you think mamma will be there?” he presently asked. “I mean mamma that was.”

“Ay, ere long.”

“But how shall I know her? You see, I have nearly forgotten what she was like.”

She leaned over him, laying her forehead upon his wasted arm, and burst into a flood of impassioned tears. “You will know her, never fear, William; she has not forgotten you.”

“But how can we be sure that she will be there?” debated William, after a pause of thought. “You know”—sinking his voice, and speaking with hesitation—“she was not quite good; she was not good enough to papa or to us. Sometimes I think, suppose she did not grow good, and did not ask God to forgive her!”

“Oh, William!” sobbed the unhappy lady, “her whole life, after she left you, was one long scene of repentance, of seeking forgiveness. Her repentance, her sorrow, was greater than she could bear, and——”

“And what?” asked William, for there was a pause.

“Her heart broke in it—yearning after you and your father.”

“What makes you think it?”

“Child, I know it!”

William considered. Then, had he been strong enough, he would have started up with energy. “Madame Vine, you could only know that by mamma’s telling you! Did you ever see her? Did you know her abroad?”

Lady Isabel’s thoughts were far away—up in the clouds perhaps. She reflected not on the possible consequences of her answer, or she had never given it.

“Yes, I knew her abroad.”

“Oh!” said the boy. “Why did you never tell us? What did she say? What was she like?”

“She said”—sobbing wildly—“that she was parted from her children here; but she should meet them in Heaven, and be with them forever. William, darling! all the awful pain, and sadness, and guilt of this world will be washed out, and God will wipe your tears away.”

“What was her face like?” he questioned softly.

“Like yours. Very much like Lucy’s.”

“Was she pretty?”

A momentary pause. “Yes.”

“Oh, dear, I am ill. Hold me!” cried out William, as his head sank to one side, and great drops, as large as peas, broke forth upon his clammy face. It appeared to be one of the temporary faint attacks that overpowered him at times lately, and Lady Isabel rang the bell hastily.

Wilson came in, in answer. Joyce was the usual attendant upon the sick room; but Mrs. Carlyle, with her infant, was passing the day at the Grove; unconscious of the critical state of William, and she had taken Joyce with her. It was the day following the trial. Mr. Justice Hare had been brought to West Lynne in his second attack, and Barbara had gone to see him, to console her mother, and to welcome Richard to his home again. If one carriage drove, that day, to the Grove, with cards and inquiries, fifty did, not to speak of the foot callers. “It is all meant by way of attention to you, Richard,” said gentle Mrs. Hare, smiling through her loving tears at her restored son. Lucy and Archie were dining at Miss Carlyle’s, and Sarah attended little Arthur, leaving Wilson free. She came in, in answer to Madame Vine’s ring.

“Is he off in another faint?” unceremoniously cried she, hastening to the bed.

“I think so. Help to raise him.”

William did not faint. No; the attack was quite different from those he was subject to. Instead of losing consciousness and power, as was customary, he shook as if he had the ague, and laid hold both of Madame Vine and Wilson, grasping them convulsively.

“Don’t let me fall! Don’t let me fall!” he gasped.

“My dear, you cannot fall,” responded Madame Vine. “You forget that you are on the bed.”

He clasped them yet, and trembled still, as from fear. “Don’t let me fall! Don’t let me fall” the incessant burden of his cry.

The paroxysm passed. They wiped his brow, and stood looking at him; Wilson with a pursed up mouth, and a peculiar expression of face. She put a spoonful of restorative jelly between his lips, and he swallowed it, but shook his head when she would have given him another. Turning his face to the pillow, in a few minutes he was in a doze.

“What could it have been?” exclaimed Lady Isabel, in an undertone, to Wilson.

“I know,” was the oracular answer. “I saw this same sort of an attack once before, madame.”

“And what caused it?”

“Twasn’t in a child though,” went on Wilson—”’twas in a grown person. But that’s nothing, it comes for the same thing in all. I think he was taken for death.”

“Who?” uttered Lady Isabel, startled.

Wilson made no reply in words, but she pointed with her finger to the bed.

“Oh, Wilson, he is not so ill as that. Mr. Wainwright said this morning, that he might last a week or two.”

Wilson composedly sat herself down in the easiest chair. She was not wont to put herself out of the way for the governess; and that governess was too much afraid of her, in one sense, to let her know her place. “As to Wainwright, he’s nobody,” quoth she. “And if he saw the child’s breath going out before his face, and knew that the next moment would be his last, he’d vow to us all that he was good for twelve hours to come. You don’t know Wainwright as I do, madame. He was our doctor at mother’s; and he has attended in all the places I have lived in since I went out to service. Five years I was maid at Mrs. Hare’s. I came here when Miss Lucy was a baby, and in all my places has he attended, like one’s shadow. My Lady Isabel thought great guns of old Wainwright, I remember. It was more than I did.”

My Lady Isabel made no response to this. She took a seat and watched William through her glasses. His breathing was more labored than usual.

“That idiot, Sarah, says to me today, says she, ‘Which of his two grandpapas will they bury him by, old Mr. Carlyle or Lord Mount Severn?’ ‘Don’t be a calf!’ I answered her. ‘D’ye think they’ll stick him out in the corner with my lord?—he’ll be put into the Carlyle vault, of course,’ It would have been different, you see, Madame Vine, if my lady had died at home, all proper—Mr. Carlyle’s wife. They’d have buried her, no doubt, by her father, and the boy would have been laid with her. But she did not.”

No reply was made by Madame Vine, and a silence ensued; nothing to be heard but that fleeting breath.

“I wonder how that beauty feels?” suddenly broke forth Wilson again, her tone one of scornful irony.

Lady Isabel, her eyes and her thoughts absorbed by William, positively thought Wilson’s words must relate to him. She turned to her in surprise.

“That bright gem in the prison at Lynneborough,” exclaimed Wilson. “I hope he may have found himself pretty well since yesterday! I wonder how many trainfuls from West Lynne will go to his hanging?”

Isabel’s face turned crimson, her heart sick. She had not dared to inquire how the trial terminated. The subject altogether was too dreadful, and nobody had happened to mention it in her hearing.

“Is he condemned?” she breathed, in a low tone.

“He is condemned, and good luck to him! And Mr. Otway Bethel’s let loose again, and good luck to him. A nice pair they are! Nobody went from this house to hear the trial—it might not have been pleasant, you know, to Mr. Carlyle; but people came in last night and told us all about it. Young Richard Hare chiefly convicted him. He is back again, and so nice-looking, they say—ten times more so than he was when quite a young man. You should have heard, they say, the cheering and shouts that greeted Mr. Richard when his innocence came out; it pretty near rose off the roof of the court, and the judge didn’t stop it.”

Wilson paused, but there was no answering comment. On she went again.

“When Mr. Carlyle brought the news home last evening, and broke it to his wife, telling her how Mr. Richard had been received with acclamations, she nearly fainted, for she’s not strong yet. Mr. Carlyle called out to me to bring some water—I was in the next room with the baby—and there she was, the tears raining from her eyes, and he holding her to him. I always said there was a whole world of love between those two; though he did go and marry another. Mr. Carlyle ordered me to put the water down, and sent me away again. But I don’t fancy he told her of old Hare’s attack until this morning.”

Lady Isabel lifted her aching forehead. “What attack?”

“Why, madame, don’t you know. I declare you box yourself up in the house, keeping from everybody, and you hear nothing. You might as well be living at the bottom of a coal-pit. Old Hare had another stroke in the court at Lynneborough, and that’s why my mistress is gone to the Grove today.”

“Who says Richard Hare’s come home, Wilson?”

The question—the weak, scarcely audible question—had come from the dying boy. Wilson threw up her hands, and made a bound to the bed. “The like of that!” she uttered, aside to Mrs. Vine. “One never knows when to take these sick ones. Master William, you hold your tongue and drop to sleep again. Your papa will be home soon from Lynneborough; and if you talk and get tired, he’ll say it’s my fault. Come shut your eyes. Will you have a bit more jelly?”

William, making no reply to the offer of jelly, buried his face again on the pillow. But he was grievously restless; the nearly worn-out spirit was ebbing and flowing.

Mr. Carlyle was at Lynneborough. He always had much business there at assize time and the Nisi Prius Court; but the previous day he had not gone himself, Mr. Dill had been dispatched to represent him.

Between seven and eight he returned home, and came into William’s chamber. The boy brightened up at the well-known presence.

“Papa!”

Mr. Carlyle sat down on the bed and kissed him. The passing beams of the sun, slanting from the horizon, shone into the room, and Mr. Carlyle could view well the dying face. The gray hue of death was certainly on it.

“Is he worse?” he exclaimed hastily, to Madame Vine, who was jacketed, and capped, and spectacled, and tied up round the throat, and otherwise disguised, in her universal fashion.

“He appears worse this evening, sir—more weak.”

“Papa,” panted William, “is the trial over?”

“What trial, my boy?”

“Sir Francis Levison’s.”

“It was over yesterday. Never trouble your head about him, my brave boy, he is not worth it.”

“But I want to know. Will they hang him?”

“He is sentenced to it.”

“Did he kill Hallijohn?”

“Yes. Who has been talking to him upon the subject?” Mr. Carlyle continued to Madame Vine, with marked displeasure in his tone.

“Wilson mentioned it, sir,” was the low answer.

“Oh, papa! What will he do? Will Jesus forgive him?”

“We must hope it.”

“Do you hope it, papa?”

“Yes. I wish that all the world may be forgiven, William, whatever may have been their sins. My child, how restless you seem!”

“I can’t keep in one place; the bed gets wrong. Pull me up on the pillow, will you Madame Vine?”

Mr. Carlyle gently lifted the boy himself.

“Madame Vine is an untiring nurse to you, William,” he observed, gratefully casting a glance toward her in the distance, where she had retreated, and was shaded by the window curtain.

William made no reply; he seemed to be trying to recall something. “I for............