all the draughts and pills that he sent, with
a smile and a shake of the head, which
implied that he had but little faith in their
efficacy. Week by week, and month by
mouth, he grew feebler, and more in need of
our care. He would persist in attending the
school so long as he could walk as far; but
there came a morning when he was too
weak to leave his arm-chair. Even then he
insisted on having the first form sent to him,
and heard them repeat their lessons while he
sat propped up with pillows.

He still retained his affection for the
classics; and when his eyes became so weak
that he could no longer see to read above a
few minutes at a time, I used to read aloud
to him the full-flowing sonorous lines of some
of the Latin poets. Ovid's Tristia was a
book which he grew particularly fond of at
this time. There is the echo of a great sorrow
in its lines, and it tells of the dangers
and troubles of those whose way is on the
deep waters. At length, even the pleasure
of sitting in his arm-chair was denied to him:
he was confined to his bed. Now it was
that the sterling womanly qualities of my
sister Helen were seen to most advantage.
With a father who required constant attention,
and a mother who was far from well,
she assumed at once her natural position of
nurse and housekeeper, as though she had
never been anything else; with untired
patience and unwearied vigilance attending
to the wants of everyone. With what tender
affection, with what quiet sympathy, she
waited on my father during his long and
tedious illness, it is beyond my skill to portray.
Many a time as she went softly about her
duties in his room, I saw his lips move, and
heard the whispered blessing.

Still he grew weaker and weaker, till it
became evident that the end was not distant.
Cheerful and uncomplaining in everything
else, he now began to long for Neville more
than ever. "Where's Neville?" he would
sometimes ask when he woke up from sleep,
with momentary forgetfulness of what had
occurred. "Why does he not come to see
me?" Then, like a flash of light, the past
would overwhelm him, and he would sink
back with a groan of anguish, exclaiming,
"Go, seek my boy, some of you! I want to
see him again before I die."

I had made inquiries, at the commencement
of his illness, in every direction where I
thought there was any likelihood of hearing
tidings of my brother; and these inquiries
I repeated from time to time, but to no
purpose.

Doctor Graile's visits became more frequent,
and his looks graver. As the spring
advanced, my father's illness grew upon
him; and by the time midsummer had
come, it was evident that he had but a short
time to live. When the school broke up for
the vacation, he would have the lads into his
bedroom, and address a few words to them,
and shake hands with them individually.
Tasks and punishments were forgotten for
that day; they only remembered how kind,
how like a father, the old master had been
to them. Before the opening day came
round, he was gone from among us; and
when I told them, on the morning of our
meeting, how he had said, only half-an-hour
before he died, "Remember me to my dear
pupils, and tell them I hope to see them all
again," it did me good to see the soft April
tears dropping quietly from their young
eyes.

Meanwhile my father's daily cry was for
Neville—"Oh, that he would come!" One
evening, at the conclusion of his usual visit,
Doctor Graile took me on one side. "My
dear young friend," he said, "it is my duty to
inform you that I do not think your father
can last many hours longer. His pulse is
sinking rapidly—"

"Oh, sir, we thought him better to-day.
He has been more cheerful than for some
time past. It is only during the last hour
that he has fallen off so."

"Mere febrile excitement and consequent
exhaustion. It rests with you to determine
whether you will communicate what I have
told you to your mother and sisters; but, my
dear Caleb, I have no expectation of finding
my old friend alive at my next visit. He is
beyond my skill now. Ah me! what shall I
do without him? We have been like brothers
for thirty years; and no one can ever
be to me what he has been. Good night.
Remember those who will soon have you
alone to look to for protection, and bear up
under your affliction."

It was a summer evening, balmy and
warm. My father would have the window
open; and the scent of new-mown hay,
mingled with that of flowers, came floating
into the room. The setting sun shot his
golden shafts through the open casement,
and the dying man basked in their glory.
Slowly the darkness grew upon us, creeping
up with soft gradations, till everything was
shrouded in its sable folds. The rushlights
were lighted, and we prepared for our usual
watch. This night I and Ruth (who had now
been at home for some weeks) were to watch.
In spite of what Doctor Graile had told me,
I still hoped that the end was not so near.
My unpractised eye could not detect that my
father was worse than usual; and so, building
on this slight foundation, I kept the fatal
intelligence to myself. My mother and
Helen retired to rest as usual; and Ruth
and I took our seats, one on each side the
bed. The hush of night fell over everything;
only, from a distant wood, we heard at intervals,
the faint notes of a nightingale. At
length this too ceased; and then the short
breathing and troubled exclamations of our
dying father were the only sounds that
broke the silence. He slept by brief
snatches, and when he was awake, he