when we opened dear aunt's letter. Shall I read it too?"

"Perhaps not now, love," said Mrs Trevor. "Poor Eric is too tired and
excited already."

"Well, then, let me glance at it myself, aunty," he said. He opened it,
read a line or two, and then, with a scream, fell back swooning, while
it dropped out of his hands.

Terrified, they picked up the fallen paper; it told briefly, in a few
heart-rending words, that, after writing the letter, Mrs Williams had
been taken ill; that her life was absolutely despaired of, and that,
before the letter reached England, she would, in all human probability,
be dead. It conveyed the impression of a soul resigned indeed, and
humble, but crushed down to the very earth with the load of mysterious
bereavement and irretrievable sorrow.

"Oh, I have killed her, I have killed my mother!" said Eric, in a hollow
voice, when he came to himself. "O God, forgive me, forgive me!"

They gathered round him they soothed, and comforted, and prayed for him;
but his soul refused comfort, and all his strength appeared to have been
broken down at once like a feeble reed. At last a momentary energy
returned; his eyes were lifted to the gloaming heaven where a few stars
had already begun to shine, and a bright look illuminated his
countenance. They listened deeply--"Yes, mother," he murmured, in
broken tones, "forgiven now, for Christ's dear sake. Oh, Thou merciful
God! Yes, there they are, and we shall meet again. Verny--oh, happy,
happy at last--too happy!"

The sounds died away, and his head fell back; for a transient moment
more the smile and the brightness played over his fair features like a
lambent flame. It passed away, and Eric was with those he dearliest
loved, in the land where there is no more curse.

"Yes, dearest Eric, forgiven and happy now," sobbed Mrs Trevor; and her
tears fell fast upon the dead boy's face, as she pressed upon it a long,
last kiss.

But Montagu, as he consoled the poignancy of Wildney's grief, was
reminded by Mrs Trevor's words of that sweet German verse--

Doch sonst an keinem Orte
Wohnt die ersehnte Ruh,
Nur durch die dunkle Pforte
Seht man der Heimath zu.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

CONCLUSION.

And hath that early hope been blessed with truth?
Hath he fulfilled the promise of his youth?
And borne unscathed through danger's stormy field
Honour's white wreath and virtue's stainless shield?
_Harrow. A Prize Poem_.