With solemn impressiveness, yet affecting tenderness, Archdeacon Howard had administered the sacrament to him, whom he regarded at once as pupil, friend, and brother; and the whole family of the dying youth, at his own particular request, had shared it with him.  Exhausted by the earnestness in which he had joined in the solemn service, Herbert now lay with one hand clasped in his mother’s, who sat by his side, her head bent over his, and her whole countenance, save when the gaze of her son was turned towards her, expressive of tearless, heart-rending sorrow, struggling for resignation to the will of Him, who called her Herbert to Himself.  Emmeline was kneeling by her mother’s side.  Mr. Hamilton leaned against the wall, pale and still; it was only the agonized expression of his manly features that betrayed he was a living being.  On the left side of the dying youth stood Arthur Myrvin, who, from the moment of his arrival at Oakwood, had never once left Herbert’s couch, night and day he remained beside him; and near Arthur, but yet closer to her cousin, knelt the orphan, her eyes tearless indeed, but her whole countenance so haggard and wan, that had not all been engrossed in individual suffering, it could not have passed unobserved.  The tall, venerable figure of the Archdeacon, as he stood a little aloof from the principal figures, completed the painful group.

“My own mother, your Herbert is so happy, so very happy! you must not weep for me, mother.  Oh, it is your fostering love and care, the remembrance of all your tenderness from my infancy, gilding my boyhood with sunshine, my manhood with such refreshing rays—­it is that which is resting on my heart, and I would give it words and thank and bless you, but I cannot.  And my father, too, my beloved, my revered father—­oh, but little have I done to repay your tender care, my brother and sisters’ love, but my Father in heaven will bless—­bless you all; I know, I feel He will.”

“Percy,” repeated the dying youth, a gleam of light kindling in his eye and flushing his cheek.  “Is there indeed a hope that I may see him, that I may trace those beloved features once again?”

He closed his eyes, and his lips moved in silent yet fervent prayer, that wish was still powerful within; it was the only thought of earth that lingered.

“Tell him,” he said, and his voice sounded weaker and weaker, “tell him, Herbert’s last prayer was for him, that he was in my last thoughts; tell him to seek for comfort at the foot of that Throne where we have so often knelt together.  Oh, let him not sorrow, for I shall be happy—­oh, so happy!”

Again he was silent, and for a much longer interval; but when he reopened his eyes, they were fixed on Ellen.