my sisters, and I saw the Doctor,
and you, Tom, and hundreds more whom I knew; and at last I saw myself
too, and I was toiling and doing ever so little a piece of the great
work. Then it all melted away, and the power left me, and as it left
me I thought I heard a voice say, 'The vision is for an appointed time;
though it 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, as I
told you. 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."

When Arthur stopped there was a long pause. Tom could not speak; he was
almost afraid to breathe, lest he should break the train of Arthur's
thoughts. He longed to hear more, and to ask questions. In another
minute nine o'clock struck, and a gentle tap at the door called them
both back into the world again. They did not answer, however, for a
moment; and so the door opened, and a lady came in carrying a candle.

She went straight to the sofa, and took hold of Arthur's hand, and then
stooped down and kissed him.

"My dearest boy, you feel a little feverish again. Why didn't you have
lights? You've talked too much, and excited yourself in the dark."

"Oh no, mother; you can't think how well I feel. I shall start with
you to-morrow for Devonshire. But, mother, here's my friend--here's Tom
Brown. You know him?"

"Yes, indeed; I've known him for years," she said, and held out her
hand to Tom, who was now standing up behind the sofa. This was Arthur's
mother: tall and slight and fair, with masses of golden hair drawn back
from the broad, white forehead, and the calm blue eye meeting his so
deep and open--the eye that he knew so well, for it was his friend's
over again, and the lovely, tender mouth that trembled while he
looked--she stood there, a woman of thirty-eight, old en