own sweet wife, my Verena, as you have always been. We have been
very happy together.'

'Indeed we have,' said she, a look of suffering crossing her face, as
she thought of their unclouded happiness. 'It will not be so long before
we meet again.'

'A few months, perhaps'--said Amabel, in a stifled voice, 'like your
mother--'

'No, don't wish that, Amy. You would not wish it to have no mother.'

'You will pray--' She could say no more, but struggled for calmness.

'Yes,' he answered, 'I trust you to it and to mamma for comfort. And
Charlie--I shall not rob him any longer. I only borrowed you for a
little while,' he added, smiling. 'In a little while we shall meet.
Years and months seem alike now. I am sorry to cause you so much grief,
my Amy, but it is all as it should be, and we have been very happy.'

Amy listened, her eyes intently fixed on him, unable to repress her
agitation, except by silence. After some little time, he spoke again.
'My love to Charlie--and Laura--and Charlotte, my brother and sisters.
How kindly they have made me one of them! I need not ask Charlotte to
take care of Bustle, and your father will ride Deloraine. My love to
him, and earnest thanks, for you above all, Amy. And dear mamma! I must
look now to meeting her in a brighter world; but tell her how I have
felt all her kindness since I first came in my strangeness and grief.
How kind she was! how she helped me and led me, and made me know what
a mother was. Amy, it will not hurt you to hear it was your likeness to
her that first taught me to love you. I have been so very happy, I don't
understand it.'

He was again silent, as in contemplation, and Amabel's overcoming
emotion had been calmed and chastened down again, now that it was no
longer herself that was spoken of. Both were still, and he seemed to
sleep a little. When next he spoke, it was to ask if she could repeat
their old favourite lines in "Sintram". They came to her lips, and she
repeated them in a low, steady voice.

When death, is coming near,
And thy heart shrinks in fear,
And thy limbs fail,
Then raise thy hands and pray
To Him who smooths the way
Through the dark vale.

Seest thou the eastern dawn!
Hear'st thou, in the red morn,
The angel's song?
Oh! lift thy drooping head,
Thou, who in gloom and dread
Hast lain so long.

Death comes to set thee free,