d, and who came with all the eagerness of
love to watch by his bedside.

We have said that Lord Kew's mother, Lady Walham, and her second son
were staying at Hombourg, when the Earl's disaster occurred. They had
proposed to come to Baden to see Kew's new bride, and to welcome her;
but the presence of her mother-in-law deterred Lady Walham, who gave
up her heart's wish in bitterness of spirit, knowing very well that
a meeting between the old Countess and herself could only produce
the wrath, pain, and humiliation which their coming together always
occasioned. It was Lord Kew who bade Rooster send for his mother, and
not for Lady Kew; and as soon as she received those sad tidings, you may
be sure the poor lady hastened to the bed where her wounded boy lay.

The fever had declared itself, and the young man had been delirious more
than once. His wan face lighted up with joy when he saw his mother; he
put his little feverish hand out of the bed to her--"I knew you would
come, dear," he said, "and you know I never would have fired upon the
poor Frenchman." The fond mother allowed no sign of terror or grief to
appear upon her face, so as to disturb her first-born and darling; but
no doubt she prayed by his side as such loving hearts know how to pray,
for the forgiveness of his trespass, who had forgiven those who sinned
against him. "I knew I should be hit, George," said Kew to his brother
when they were alone; "I always expected some such end as this. My
life has been very wild and reckless; and you, George, have always been
faithful to our mother. You will make a better Lord Kew than I have
been, George. God bless you." George flung himself down with sobs by his
brother's bedside, and swore Frank had always been the best fellow,
the best brother, the kindest heart, the warmest friend in the world.
Love--prayer--repentance, thus met over the young man's bed. Anxious and
humble hearts, his own the least anxious and the most humble, awaited
the dread award of life or death; and the world, and its ambition and
vanities, were shut out from the darkened chamber where the awful issue
was being tried.

Our history has had little to do with characters resembling this lady.
It is of the world, and things pertaining to it. Things beyond it, as
the writer imagines, scarcely belong to the novelist's province. Who is
he, that he should assume the divine's office; or turn his desk into a
preacher's pulpit? In that career of pleasure, of