y."

"I am nearer the close of my journey than you are aware. I am warned by
a feeling here," laying his hand on his heart, "to regard every day as
my last."

"It gives me inexpressible joy to hear you speak thus composedly
respecting the trying hour."

"Brother, I should like to see Margaret Gray before I die." A smile was
upon his countenance as he spoke thus, but deep earnestness in his
tones.

"I will go and see her, and make known your request. She will not fail
to grant it, I am sure."

"Tell her I wish to see her as Margaret Gray. Help me now to my room,
when I have taken one more view of this scene, from which I do so
earnestly wish I had never departed."

He gazed for some moments on the landscape which had delighted his
youthful vision, and entered the dwelling with a tear in his eye and a
smile upon his lips. Henry repaired at once to the lone dwelling of the
widow, and made known to her his brother's request.

"I never expected to meet him again in this world. I cannot disoblige
him; nor would I fail to comply with his wishes; and yet I had rather
not meet him."

"He has but a few days to live. You have forgiven him; and I trust He,
to whom we must all look for forgiveness, has done the same."

"If that be the case, I shall be glad to meet him. I supposed he had
chosen his portion, and that it would be said of him, as of the rich man
of old, 'Son, thou hast had thy good things;' and yet I could never
fully believe that the child of so many prayers, the child of so
faithful a father, could perish at last; though I know that to his own
Master must each one stand or fall--that each one must give account of
himself to God. I will go with you at once."

When Mrs. Larned entered the room in which Richard Clifton was lying
upon a sofa, being too feeble to rise, he lifted up his voice and wept.
He extended his hand, which was taken in silence by Mrs. Larned, who sat
down by his side and wept with him.

"Margaret," said he--the word caused her to start as though a sword had
pierced her--"you have come to forgive me?"

"I have nothing to forgive. It is long since I had anything laid up
against any human being. I pitied you, and prayed for you; but I never
had anything laid up against you."

"I have always done you the justice to think so. I knew you were
incapable of cherishing unkindness towards any one, however unkindly you
may have been treated. You have been happy, and I have not. Do you
remember