ing forward, he fell at the young lord's feet, and hiding his
face against them, sobbed aloud.

"Dear Robert; have you come?" said a low, sweet voice.

"Yes, my lord," answered Robert, joyfully.

"Oh, _won't_ you call me _Arthur_, now that I am dying?" said his
friend.

"Arthur, _dear Arthur_," murmured Robert, and that was all that he
could say for weeping.

After awhile, Lord Evremond, looking up to his mother and clasping
Robert's hand, said:

"Mamma, I leave _you_ Robert; love him and take care of him; send him
to school, and let him have just such an education as you would have
given to me. Promise me that you will, dear mamma."

"Yes, Arthur, my beloved child, I promise but oh, my son, my darling
only boy, how can I part with you!"

"Dearest mother, only think, it is for but a little while, and then we
shall all be together. Kiss me now, and let me sleep, I feel so
drowsy."

And he did sleep, for some time, very peacefully, smiling sweetly, as
though dreaming pleasant dreams. Suddenly he opened his eyes, and
reached up his arms, calling out joyfully: "Papa! sister Mary!" and
died without a pang of suffering.

Ten years had passed. It was Sunday morning, and the church bell of
Evremond was calling the people to worship. All were eager to see and
hear the new minister, who was to preach his first sermon that day.
Out of the pleasant Rectory he came, supporting an elderly lady on his
arm. It was Robert Selwyn and his mother. At the church door they met
a lady, who grasped them both by the hand. This was Lady Evremond.

Robert Selwyn performed the sacred rites with dignity and true feeling,
and preached a noble discourse, such an one as makes men's hearts
strong against sin, but soft toward the erring.

After the services, when all save she had left the church, Lady
Evremond lingered for some time before a white marble monument, which
stood under a high church window. The sculpture on this monument
represented the young Lord Evremond, as he lay on his couch, when
dying,--and an angel, with a face very like his, lovingly lifting him
from his mother's arms, to bear him to heaven.

As Lady Evremond gazed on the marble image of her dead boy, she
murmured:

"Have I not been true to thy trust, my son?"

Late in the dim twilight of that day, another form was kneeling beside
that monumental couch. It was Robert Selwyn; and when he rose, there
were tears on that sweet marble face. All night l