the sole watcher in the lonely chamber, as with an impatient sigh he
raises his head, and, going over to the window, draws the curtains
still closer to shut out the obnoxious light; after which he comes
back to where he has been standing, gazing down upon, and thinking of,
the dead.

He is an old man, tall and gaunt, with kind but passionate eyes, and
a mouth expressive of impatience. His hands--withered but still
sinewy--are clasped behind his back; every feature in his face is full
of sad and anxious thought.

What changes the passing of a few short hours have wrought--so he
muses. Yesterday the man now chilled and silent for evermore was as
full of animation as he--his brother--who to-day stands so sorrowfully
beside his corpse. His blood had run as freely in his veins, his
pulses throbbed as evenly, his very voice had been sounding strong and
clear and hearty, when Death, remorseless, claimed him for his own.

Poor Reginald! Had he known of the fell disease that had nestled so
long within his heart?--or had no symptoms ever shown themselves to
give him kindly warning? Certainly no hint of it had ever passed his
lips, even to those most near and dear to him. He had lived apparently
free from care or painful forebodings of any kind,--a good and useful
life too, leaving nothing for those behind (who loved him) to regret.
Indeed, of late he had appeared even gayer, happier, than before; and
now--

It seems such a little time ago since they both were lads together. A
tiny space taken from the great eternity, when all is told. How well
the living man remembers at this moment many a boyish freak and
light-hearted jest, many a kindness shown and gift bestowed by the
dead, that until now had wellnigh been forgotten!

He thinks of the good old college days, when they worked little, and
fought hard, and trained their fresh young limbs to mighty deeds, and
walked, and rode, and held their own with the best, and showed open
defiance of dons and deans and proctors; he lingers, too, on the day
still farther on, when Reginald, having attained to his kingdom,
lavished with no meagre hand upon his more extravagant brother the
money so sorely needed.

Now Reginald is gone, and he, Arthur, reigns in his stead,
and----Alas! alas! poor Reggy!--Poor, dear old fellow!

He rouses himself with an effort, and, going very softly to a small
door that opens from the apartment, beckons gently to somebody beyond.

An old woman, dressed