chard hard by, recalled him from his reveries.

He shook hands through the hedge. "I will come and see you in the
evening, Fred. I must hasten on now. She will go to church this morning,
and I must go with her."

"Who?" asked the other.

Alfred pointed to the cottage where Susan Harvey dwelt. "I bring her good
news--I have a letter. Martin is living and well."

The friend shook his head.

Alfred dismounted, and walked towards Susan Harvey's cottage. The door
was closed, and when he looked through the window he could see no one
inside. He lifted the latch softly and entered. There was no one there;
but his entrance had been heard, and a moment after, a fine stout lad
came out of the inner chamber, took Alfred's proffered hand, and in
answer to his inquiries, burst into tears.

"She says she cannot live long, sir; but she told me last night, that
before she died, you would come and tell us news of father. She has been
saying all the past week that we should hear from him soon."

Whilst the boy spoke, Alfred heard a weak voice, calling his name from
the inner room.

"Go in," he said, "and tell her I am here."

The boy did so, and then beckoned him to enter.

Susan's submissive features were but little changed, from the time when
her husband was taken from her; but the weak and wasted form that strove
to raise itself in vain, as Alfred approached the bed-side, too plainly
revealed that the struggle was drawing to a close--that the time of rest
was at hand.

"Thank God, you are come," she said; "you have heard from him? Tell me
quickly, for my time is short."

"I come to tell you good news, Susan. You may yet be restored to him."

"I shall not see Martin in this world again, Mr. Gray; but I shall close
my eyes in peace. If you know where he is, and can tell me that my boy
shall go and be with him, and tell him how, through these long weary
years, we loved him, and thought of him, and prayed for him--" Here she
broke off, and beckoned the boy to her. She held his hands within her
own, whilst Alfred Gray read from the letter all that would comfort her.

When he had done, she said, "God will bless you--you have been very good
to us in our misery. Now, will you promise me one thing more? Will you
send my boy to his father, when I am gone?"

The promise was made; and the boy knelt long by her bedside, listening
to the words of love and consolation which, with her latest breath, she
uttered for the sake of him wh