no more
than the lowing of the cattle, or the drone of the thrashing machine. He
lay half lifted up on his pillows, drawing his breath short with
apprehension; his days were numbered, and death was coming fast, fast,
straight upon him. He felt it within himself--he knew now the meaning of
the pain and sinking, the shortness of breath and choking of throat that
had been growing on him through the long summer days; he was being 'cut
off with pining sickness,' and his sentence had gone forth. He would
have screamed for his mother in the sore terror and agony that had come
over him, in hopes she might drive the notion from him; but the dread of
seeing her followed by that woman kept his lips shut, except for his long
gasps of breath.

And she could not keep him--Mr. Blunt could not keep him; no one could
stay the hand that had touched him! Prayer! They had prayed for his
father, for Charlie, but it had not been God's Will. He had himself many
times prayed to recover, and it had not been granted--he was worse and
worse.

Moreover, whither did that path of suffering lead? Up rose before Alfred
the thought of living after the unknown passage, and of answering for all
he had done; and now the faults he had refused to call to mind when he
was told of chastisement, came and stood up of themselves. Bred up to
know the good, he had not loved it; he had cared for his own pleasure,
not for God; he had not heeded the comfort of his widowed mother; he had
been careless of the honour of God's House, said and heard prayers
without minding them; he had been disrespectful and ill-behaved at my
Lady's--he had been bad in every way; and when illness came, how
rebellious and murmuring he had been, how unkind he had been to his
patient mother, sister, and brother; and when Mr. Cope had told him it
was meant to lead him to repent, he would not hear; and now it was too
late, the door would be shut. He had always heard that there was a time
when sorrow was no use, when the offer of being saved had been thrown
away.

When Ellen came in, and after a short greeting to Betsey Hardman, went up-
stairs, she found Alfred lying back on his pillow, deadly white, the
beads of dew standing on his brow, and his breath in gasps. She would
have shrieked for her mother, but he held out his hand, and said, in a
low hoarse whisper, 'Ellen, is it true?'

'What, Alfy dear? What is the matter?'

'What _she_ says.'

'Who? Betsey Hardman? Dear de