urs all the same. It is the Great High Priest to
Whom you must look--perhaps you may do so the more really if it should
not be through--your friend. If we are disappointed, we will make a
sacrifice of our disappointment. Good-bye, my boy; God bless you!'
Bending close down to his face, he whispered, 'Think of me. Pray for
me--now--always.' Then, rising hastily, he shook the hands of the mother
and sister, ran down-stairs, and was gone.

CHAPTER XII--REST AT LAST

The east wind had been swept aside by gales from the warm south, and the
spring was bursting out everywhere; the sky looked softly blue, instead
of hard and chill; the sun made everything glisten: the hedges were full
of catkins; white buds were on the purple twigs of the blackthorns;
primroses were looking out on the sunny side of the road; the larks were
mounting up, singing as if they were wild with delight; and the sunbeams
were full of dancing gnats, as the Curate of Friarswood walked, with
quick eager steps, towards the bridge.

His eyes were anxiously bent on the house, watching the white smoke
rising from the chimney; then he hastened on to gain the first sight at
the upper windows, feeling almost as he could have done had it been a
brother who lay there; so much was his heart set on the first whom he had
striven to help through the valley of the shadow of death. The window
was open, but the blind was not drawn; and almost at the same moment the
gate opened, some one looked out, and seeing him, waved his hand and arm
in joyful signal towards some one within, and this gesture set Mr. Cope's
heart at rest.

Was it Harold? No, it was Paul Blackthorn, who stood leaning on the
wicket, as he held it open for the clergyman, at whom he looked up as if
expecting some change, and a little surprised to find the same voice and
manner.

'Well, Paul, then he is not worse?'

'No, Sir, thank you, he is better. The pain has left him, and he can
speak again,' said Paul, but not very cheerfully.

'That is a great comfort! But who's that?' as a head, not Ellen's,
appeared for a moment at the window.

'That's Miss King, Sir--Miss Matilda!'

'Oh! Well, and how are the bones, Paul? Better, I hope, since I see you
are come out with the bees,' said Mr. Cope, laying his hand kindly on his
shoulder (a thing fit to touch now, since it was in a fustian coat of
poor Alfred's), and accommodating his swift strong steps to the feeble
halt with which Paul s