bout him, he went off to look for it, dragging
his slippers along the hall in his usual lazy fashion. Lionel, glad of
the respite, applied himself to his work.

CHAPTER LXXX.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A NIGHT GONE BY.

One was dying in Deerham, but not of ague, and that was old Matthew
Frost. Matthew was dying of old age, to which we must all succumb, if we
live long enough.

April was in, and the fever and ague were getting better. News was
brought to Lionel one morning that old Matthew was not expected to last
through the day. Jan entered the breakfast-room at Deerham Court and
told him so. Lionel had been starting to Verner's Pride; but he changed
his course towards Clay Lane.

"Jan," said he, as he was turning away, "I wish you'd go up and see
Sibylla. I am sure she is very ill."

"I'll go if you like," said Jan. "But there's no use in it. She won't
listen to a word I say, or attend to a single direction that I give.
Hayes told me, when he came over last week, that it was the same with
him. She persists to him, as she does to me, that she has no need of
medicine or care; that she is quite well."

"I am aware she persists in it," replied Lionel, "but I feel sure she is
very ill."

"I know she is," said Jan, "She's worse than folks think for. Perhaps
you amongst them, Lionel. I'll go up to her." He turned back to the
house as he spoke, and Lionel went on to Clay Lane.

Old Matthew was lying on his bed, very peaceful--peaceful as to his
inward and his outward state. Though exceedingly weak, gradually
sinking, he retained both speech and intellect: he was passing away
without pain, and with his faculties about him. What a happy death-bed,
when all is peace within! His dim eyes lighted up with pleasure when he
saw Mr. Verner.

"Have you come to see the last of me, sir?" he asked, as Lionel took his
hand.

"Not quite the last yet, I hope, Matthew."

"Don't hope it, sir; nor wish it, neither," returned the old man,
lifting his hand with a deprecatory movement. "I'm on the threshold of a
better world, sir, and I'd not turn back to this, if God was to give me
the choice of it. I'm going to my rest, sir. Like as my bed has waited
for me and been welcome to me after a hard day's toil, so is my rest now
at hand after my life's toil. It is as surely waiting for me as ever was
my bed; and I am longing to get to it."

Lionel looked down at the calm, serene face, fair and smooth yet. The
skin was drawn tight over