was willing to escape from his agony as
soon as he had received the proper consolation and preparation of his
religion. His only fear was that he would not linger long enough
to receive it, but that he might his lips were even then moving in
prayer.

Dorothy was sitting by his bedside, and as Nicholas Bury stepped
gently forward she silently arose, and, with a heart too full to
permit her to speak, she offered him her hand as a token of welcome,
and led him up to the chair upon which she had just been sitting.

Her courtesy was acknowledged by a most profound bow, but, refusing
the seat she proffered him, Nicholas reached another for himself and
sat down upon it by the side of the maiden.

It was a long time since Nicholas had witnessed so much magnificence
gathered together in one room, and tired by his long ride and soothed
by the grateful odour of the incense which filled the room, and also
struck by a feeling of reverential awe by the solemnity of the
whole scene, which readily appealed to his religious instincts, he
remembered nothing of what had just transpired, but leaned his head
upon his hand and fell into a reverie, such as he had allowed himself
to indulge in when alone in his solitary Deepdale cell.

"He is not asleep," said Dorothy, stretching forward and laying her
hand upon his arm. "He has been waiting long for thee."

Her voice startled Nicholas, who had become sublimely unconscious of
his surroundings; and incoherently murmuring some remark, maybe the
conclusion of one of his prayers, he turned round and fixed his gaze
upon the form of the dying man.

"Reverend father," he exclaimed in a subdued and quiet voice, "I am
here to aid thee."

Father Philip turned himself round with difficulty and faced the
speaker.

"Dorothy," he called.

"I am here, father," she replied, "I have never left thee."

"Take it away from my eyes, child," he commanded.

Father Philip never called her child except on rare occasions when
her conduct displeased him, and she would have felt hurt at the
appellation now had it not been for the unusual circumstances of the
case. She looked inquiringly at him to fathom his meaning, but, seeing
nothing to remove, she would have asked him what it was he meant, had
he not interrupted her.

"Take it away, Dorothy," he repeated, "I cannot see."

"Poor brother," exclaimed Nicholas, noticing the discomfiture. "I fear
me thou art blind. There is naught to take away, save the fi