, drooped with
the white weight; and a keen North wind groaned among the branches. All
was gloomy and chill outside.

And inside, all was gloomy and mournful too, for a soul was in
departing. The ripe fruit that had tarried so late on the old tree, was
shaken down at last. Softly and tenderly, the Lady Elizabeth, the young
wife of Sir Robert Basset, was ministering to the last earthly needs of
Philippa the aged, the sister of her husband's grandfather. [Note 1.]

"'Tis high time, Bess, child!" whispered the dying woman, true to her
character to the last. "I must have been due on the roll of Death these
thirty years. I began to marvel if he had forgot me. And I am going
Home, child. Thank God, I am going Home!

"They are are all safe yonder, Bess--Arthur, and Nell [Wife of Sir
Arthur Basset], and little Honor, and thy little lad [Arthur, who died
in infancy], and Jack, and Frances--my darling sister!--and George, and
Kate, and Nan. I am assured of them, all. There be James and Mall,--
well, I am not so sure of them. Would God I were! He knoweth.

"But I do hope I shall see my mother. And, O Bess! I shall see him--my
blessed, beloved father--I _shall_ see him!

"And they'll be glad, child. They'll all be glad when they see poor
blundering old Philippa come stumbling in at the gate. I misdoubt if
they look for it. They'll be glad!

"Bess, I do hope thou wilt ne'er turn thy back upon God so many years as
I have done. And I had never turned to Him at last, if He had not
stooped and turned me.

"Tell Robin, with my blessing, to be a whole man for God. A whole man
and a true! He is too rash--and yet not bold [true] enough. He cares
too much what other folk think. (Thank God, I ne'er fell in that trap!
'Tis an ill one to find the way out.) Do thou keep him steadfast, Bess.
He'll ask some keeping. There's work afore thee yet, child; 'tis work
worthy an angel--to keep one man steadfast for God. Thou must walk
close to God thyself to do it. And after all, 'twill be none of thy
doing, but of His that wrought by thee.--

"And God bless the childre! I count there's the making of a true man in
little Arthur. Thou mayest oft-times tell what a child is like to be
when he is but four years old. God bless him, and make him another
Arthur! (Nay, I stay me not at Robin's father, as thou dost. Another
Arthur,--like that dear father of ours, whom we so loved! He is _the_
Arthur for me.) I can give the