ou will be happier, indeed,
Philip, if you would only think what glory it is, and that he is all
safe, and has won the victory, and will have no more of those hard,
hard struggles, and bitter repentance. It has been such a night, that it
seems wrong to be sorry.'

'Did you say he spoke of me again?'

'Yes; here is his Prayer-book. Your father gave it to him, and he meant
to have told you about it himself, only he could not talk yesterday
evening, and could not part with it till--'

Amy broke off by opening the worn purple cover, and showing the name, in
the Archdeacon's writing. 'He's very fond of it,' she said; 'it is the
one he always uses.' (Alas! she had not learnt to speak of him in the
past tense.)

Philip held out his hand, but the agony of grief returned the next
moment. 'My father, my father! He would have done him justice. If he had
lived, this would never have been!'

'That is over, you do him justice now,' said Amy. 'You did, indeed you
did, make him quite happy. He said so, again and again. I never saw him
so happy as when you began to get better. I don't think any one ever had
so much happiness and it never ceased, it was all quiet, and peace, and
joy, till it brightened quite into perfect day--and the angel's song!
Don't you remember yesterday, how clear and sweet his voice came out in
that? and it was the last thing almost he said. I believe'--she lowered
her voice--'I believe he finished it among them.'

The earnest placid voice, speaking thus, in calmness and simplicity,
could not fail in soothing him; but he was so shaken and exhausted,
that she had great difficulty in restoring him. After a time, he lay
perfectly still on the sofa, and she was sitting by, relieved by the
tranquillity, when there was a knock at the door, and Arnaud came in,
and stood hesitating, as if he hardly knew how to begin. The present
fear of agitating her charge helped her now, when obliged to turn her
thoughts to the subjects on which she knew Arnaud was come. She went to
the door, and spoke low, hoping her cousin might not hear or understand.

'How soon must it be?'

'My lady, to-morrow,' said Arnaud, looking down. 'They say that so it
must be; and the priest consents to have it in the churchyard here. The
brother of the clergyman is here, and would know if your ladyship would
wish--'

'I will speak to him,' said Amabel, reluctant to send such messages
through servants.

'Let me,' said Philip, who understood wha