choristers, young and old, that performed
the beautiful evening prayer. But Mr. Tusher was one of the officiants,
and read from the eagle in an authoritative voice, and a great black
periwig; and in the stalls, still in her black widow's hood, sat
Esmond's dear mistress, her son by her side, very much grown, and indeed
a noble-looking youth, with his mother's eyes, and his father's curling
brown hair, that fell over his point de Venise--a pretty picture such
as Van Dyck might have painted. Mons. Rigaud's portrait of my Lord
Viscount, done at Paris afterwards, gives but a French version of his
manly, frank, English face. When he looked up there were two sapphire
beams out of his eyes such as no painter's palette has the color to
match, I think. On this day there was not much chance of seeing that
particular beauty of my young lord's countenance; for the truth is, he
kept his eyes shut for the most part, and, the anthem being rather long,
was asleep.

But the music ceasing, my lord woke up, looking about him, and his eyes
lighting on Mr. Esmond, who was sitting opposite him, gazing with no
small tenderness and melancholy upon two persons who had so much of his
heart for so many years, Lord Castlewood, with a start, pulled at his
mother's sleeve (her face had scarce been lifted from her book), and
said, "Look, mother!" so loud, that Esmond could hear on the other side
of the church, and the old Dean on his throned stall. Lady Castlewood
looked for an instant as her son bade her, and held up a warning finger
to Frank; Esmond felt his whole face flush, and his heart throbbing,
as that dear lady beheld him once more. The rest of the prayers were
speedily over; Mr. Esmond did not hear them; nor did his mistress, very
likely, whose hood went more closely over her face, and who never lifted
her head again until the service was over, the blessing given, and Mr.
Dean, and his procession of ecclesiastics, out of the inner chapel.

Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before the clergy were
fairly gone, and running up to Esmond, eagerly embraced him. "My dear,
dearest old Harry!" he said, "are you come back? Have you been to the
wars? You'll take me with you when you go again? Why didn't you write to
us? Come to mother."

Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a "God bless you, my boy," for
his heart was very full and grateful at all this tenderness on the lad's
part; and he was as much moved at seeing Frank as he was