d in, asked John what they had been talking
about.

'Of many things,' said John; 'much of my godson.'

'Ay!' said Arthur; 'did you not wonder how anything so good can belong
to me?'

John smiled, and said, 'His goodness belongs to nothing here.'

'Nay, it is no time to say that after talking to his mother,' said
Arthur; 'though I know what you mean, and she would not let me say so.
Well, I am glad you are come, for talks with you are the greatest treat
to her. She seemed to be gathering them up again at Ventnor, and was
always telling me of them. She declares they taught her everything good;
though that, of course, I don't believe, you know,' he added, smiling.

'No; there was much in which she needed no teaching, and a few hints
here and there do not deserve what she ascribes to them.'

'John,' said Arthur, coming nearer to him, and speaking low, 'she and
her boy are more perfect creatures than you can guess, without knowing
the worst of me. You warned me that I must make her happy, and you
saw how it was the first year. It has been worse since that. I have
neglected them, let them deny themselves, ruined them, been positively
harsh to that angel of a boy; and how they could love me, and be patient
with me throughout, is what I cannot understand, though--though I can
feel it.'

'Truly,' thought John, as Arthur hastily quitted him, ashamed of his
emotion, 'if Violet be my scholar, she has far surpassed her teacher!
Strange that so much should have arisen apparently from my attempt to
help and cheer the poor dispirited girl, in that one visit to
Ventnor, which I deemed so rash a venture of my own comfort--useless,
self-indulgent wretch that I was. She has done the very deeds that I had
neglected. My brother and sister, even my mother and Helen's brother,
all have come under her power of firm meekness--all, with one voice, are
ready to "rise up and call her blessed!" Nay, are not these what Helen
would have most wished to effect, and is it not her memorials that have
been the instruments of infusing that spirit into Violet? These are
among the works that follow her, or, as they sung this evening--

"For seeds are sown of glorious light,
A future harvest for the just,
And gladness for the heart that's right
To recompense its pious trust."'

And in gladness did he stand before the house that had been destined as
the scene of his married life, and look forth on the churchyard where
Helen s