father's grave. 'Even here,' said Nicholas softly, 'we used to loiter
before we knew what death was, and when we little thought whose ashes
would rest beneath; and, wondering at the silence, sit down to rest
and speak below our breath. Once, Kate was lost, and after an hour of
fruitless search, they found her, fast asleep, under that tree which
shades my father's grave. He was very fond of her, and said when he took
her up in his arms, still sleeping, that whenever he died he would wish
to be buried where his dear little child had laid her head. You see his
wish was not forgotten.'

Nothing more passed at the time, but that night, as Nicholas sat beside
his bed, Smike started from what had seemed to be a slumber, and laying
his hand in his, prayed, as the tears coursed down his face, that he
would make him one solemn promise.

'What is that?' said Nicholas, kindly. 'If I can redeem it, or hope to
do so, you know I will.'

'I am sure you will,' was the reply. 'Promise me that when I die, I
shall be buried near--as near as they can make my grave--to the tree we
saw today.'

Nicholas gave the promise; he had few words to give it in, but they were
solemn and earnest. His poor friend kept his hand in his, and turned as
if to sleep. But there were stifled sobs; and the hand was pressed
more than once, or twice, or thrice, before he sank to rest, and slowly
loosed his hold.

In a fortnight's time, he became too ill to move about. Once or twice,
Nicholas drove him out, propped up with pillows; but the motion of the
chaise was painful to him, and brought on fits of fainting, which, in
his weakened state, were dangerous. There was an old couch in the house,
which was his favourite resting-place by day; and when the sun shone,
and the weather was warm, Nicholas had this wheeled into a little
orchard which was close at hand, and his charge being well wrapped
up and carried out to it, they used to sit there sometimes for hours
together.

It was on one of these occasions that a circumstance took place, which
Nicholas, at the time, thoroughly believed to be the mere delusion of an
imagination affected by disease; but which he had, afterwards, too good
reason to know was of real and actual occurrence.

He had brought Smike out in his arms--poor fellow! a child might have
carried him then--to see the sunset, and, having arranged his couch, had
taken his seat beside it. He had been watching the whole of the night
before, and b