the room of sickness and pain was thronged and
beautiful with angelic presences.

Often did Eric, and Upton, and Montagu talk of their loved friend.
Eric's life seemed absorbed in the thought of him, and in passionate,
unspeakable longings for his recovery. Now he valued more than ever the
happy hours which he had spent with him; their games, and communings,
and walks, and Russell's gentle influence, and brave kindly rebukes.
Yet he must not even see him, must not smooth his pillow, must not
whisper one word of soothing to him in his anguish; he could only pray
for him, and that he did with a depth of hope.

At last Upton, in virtue of his relationship, was allowed to visit him.
His delirium had become more unfrequent, but he could not yet even
recognise his cousin, and the visits to the sick-room were so sad and
useless, that Upton forbore. "And yet you should hear him talk in his
delirium," he said to Eric; "not one evil word, or bad thought, or
wicked thing, ever escapes him. I'm afraid, Eric, it would hardly be so
with you or me."

"No," said Eric, in a low and humble tone; and guilty conscience brought
the deep colour, wave after wave of crimson, into his cheeks.

"And he talks with such affection of you, Eric. He speaks sometimes of
all of us very gently; but you seem to be always in his thoughts, and
every now and then he prays for you quite unconsciously."

Eric turned his head to brush away a tear. "When do you think I shall
be allowed to see him?"

"Not just yet, I fear."

After a week or two of most anxious suspense, Russell's mind ceased to
wander, but the state of his sprain gave more cause for alarm. Fresh
advice was called in, and it was decided that the leg must be amputated.

When Eric was told this, he burst into passionate complaints. "Only
think, Monty, isn't it hard, isn't it cruel? When we see our brave,
bright Edwin again he will be a cripple." Eric hardly understood that
he was railing at the providence of a merciful God.

The day for the operation came. When it was over, poor Russell seemed
to amend, and the removal of the perpetual pain gave him relief. They
were all deeply moved at his touching resignation; no murmur, no cry
escaped him; no words but the sweetest thanks for every little office of
kindness done to him. A few days after, he asked Dr Underhay, "if he
might see Eric?"

"Yes, my boy," said the Doctor kindly, "he, and one or two others of
your particular frie