the same
weight in the Almighty's scales as a wicked deed."

"Blessed, blessed, are they," I cried through my tears, "on whose souls
there is as little stain as there is on yours!"

"Faith, Morton, that's kindly said; and thou knowest not how strangely
it sounds, after their exhortations to repentance. I know I have had my
faults, and walked on to our common goal in a very irregular line; but I
never wronged the living nor slandered the dead, nor ever shut my heart
to the poor,--'t were a burning sin if I had,--and I have loved all men
and all things, and I never bore ill-will to a creature. Poor Ponto,
Morton, thou wilt take care of poor Ponto, when I'm dead,--nay, nay,
don't grieve so. Go, my child, go: compose thyself while I see the
priest, for 't will please thy poor mother; and though she thinks
harshly of me now, I should not like her to do so _to-morrow_! Go, my
dear boy, go."

I went from the room, and waited by the door, till the office of the
priest was over. My mother then came out, and said Sir William had
composed himself to sleep. While she was yet speaking, Gerald surprised
me by his appearance. I learned that he had been in the house for the
last three days, and when I heard this, I involuntarily accounted for
the appearance of Montreuil. I saluted him distantly, and he returned
my greeting with the like pride. He seemed, however, though in a less
degree, to share in my emotions; and my heart softened to him for it.
Nevertheless we stood apart, and met not as brothers should have met by
the death-bed of a mutual benefactor.

"Will you wait without?" said my mother.

"No," answered I, "I will watch over him." So I stole in, with a light
step, and seated myself by my uncle's bed-side. He was asleep, and his
sleep was as hushed and quiet as an infant's. I looked upon his face,
and saw a change had come over it, and was increasing sensibly: but
there was neither harshness nor darkness in the change, awful as it was.
The soul, so long nurtured on benevolence, could not, in parting, leave
a rude stamp on the kindly clay which had seconded its impulses so well.

The evening had just set in, when my uncle woke; he turned very gently,
and smiled when he saw me.

"It is late," said he, and I observed with a wrung heart, that his voice
was fainter.

"No, Sir, not very," said I.

"Late enough, my child; the warm sun has gone down; and 'tis a good time
to close one's eyes, when all without looks gray and