“Keep it from Caroline—­tell her not now, it will kill her,” he cried.  “May God in heaven bless you for those tears!” he continued, springing towards Louisa, and clasping her hands convulsively in his, as the sight of her unfeigned emotion caused the hot tears slowly to trickle down his own cheek, and his lip quivered, till he could scarcely speak the words of parting.  “Oh, think of me; I go to the dying bed of him, whom I had hoped would one day have been to you a brother—­would have joined—­” He paused in overwhelming emotion, took the hand of the trembling girl, raised it to his lips, and darted from the apartment.

St. Eval hastily followed him, for he saw Percy was in no state to think of anything himself, and the letter Robert had received, telling him of the death of his mother, rendered him almost as incapable of exertion as his master; but as soon as he heard the cause of Percy’s very visible but at first incomprehensible agitation, his own deep affliction was at once subdued; he was ready and active in Percy’s service.  That Mr. Hamilton should thus have written to him, to alleviate the blow of a parent’s death, to comfort him when his own son lay on a dying bed, penetrated at once the heart of the young man, and urged him to exertion.

Day and night Percy travelled; but we must outstrip even his rapid course, and conduct our readers to Oakwood, the evening of the second day after Percy’s arrival at Ostend.

Herbert Hamilton lay on his couch, the cold hand of Death upon his brow; but instead of robing his features with a ghastly hue, it had spread over them even more than usual beauty.  Reduced he was to a mere shadow, but his prayers in his days of health and life had been heard; the delirium of fever had passed, and he met death unshrinkingly, his mind retaining even more than its wonted powers.  It was the Sabbath evening, and all around him was still and calm.  For the first two days after the delirium had departed, his mind had still been darkened, restless, and uneasy.  Perseveringly as he had laboured in his calling, he had felt in those darker days the utter nothingness of his own works, how wholly insufficient they had been to secure his salvation; and the love of his God, the infinite atonement in which he so steadily believed, shone not with sufficient brightness to remove this painful darkness.  Death was very near, and it no longer seemed the angel of light he had ever regarded it; but on the Saturday the mist was mercifully dispelled from his mind, the clouds dispersed, and faith shone forth with a brilliancy, a lustre overpowering; it told of heaven with an eloquence that banished every other thought, and Herbert’s bodily sufferings were felt no longer; the confines of heaven were gained—­but a brief space, one mortal struggle, and he would meet his Mary at the footstool of his God.