“My sister, my kind and tender nurse, what shall I say to you?” he said, languidly, but in a tone that thrilled to her aching heart.  “I can but commend you to His care, who can take from grief its sting, even as He hath clothed this moment in victory.  May His spirit rest upon you, Ellen, and give you peace.  May He bless you, not only for your affectionate kindness towards me, but to her who went before me.  You will not forget, Ellen.”  His glance wandered from his cousin to his mother, and then returned to her.  She bowed her head upon his extended hand, but her choking voice could speak no word.  “Caroline, too, she will weep for me, but St. Eval will dry her tears; tell them I did not forget them; that my love and blessing is theirs even as if they had been around me.  Emmeline, Arthur,—­Mr. Howard, oh, where are you? my eyes are dim, my voice is failing, yet”—­

“I am here, my beloved son,” said the Archdeacon, and Herbert fixed a kind glance upon his face, and leaned his head against him.

“I would tell you, that it is the sense of the Divine presence, of love, unutterable, infinite, inexhaustible, that has taken all anguish from this moment.  My spirit rises triumphant, secure of eternal salvation, triumphing in the love of Him who died for me.  Oh, Death, well may I say, where is thy sting? oh, grave, where is thy victory? they are passed; heaven is opening.  Oh, bliss unutterable, undying!” He sunk back utterly exhausted, but the expression of his countenance still evinced the internal triumph of his soul.

A faint sound, as of the distant trampling of horses, suddenly came upon the ear.  Nearer, nearer still, and a flush of excitement rose to Herbert’s cheek.  “Percy—­can it be?  My God, I thank thee for this mercy!”

Arthur darted from the room, as the sound appeared rapidly approaching; evidently it was a horse urged to its utmost speed, and it could be none other save Percy.  Arthur flew across the hall, and through the entrance, which had been flung widely open, as the figure of the young heir of Oakwood had been recognised by the streaming eyes of the faithful Morris, who stood by his young master’s stirrup, but without uttering a word.  Percy’s tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; his eyes were bloodshot and haggard.  He had no power to ask a question, and it was only the appearance of Myrvin, his entreaty that he would be calm ere Herbert saw him, that roused him to exertion.  His brother yet lived; it was enough, and in another minute he stood on the threshold of Herbert’s room.  With an overpowering effort the dying youth raised himself on his couch, and extended his arms towards him.

“Percy, my own Percy, this is kind,” he said, and his voice suddenly regained its wonted power.  Percy sprung towards him, and the brothers were clasped in each other’s arms.  No word did Percy speak, but his choking sobs were heard; there was no movement in the drooping form of his brother to say that he had heard the sound; he did not raise his head from Percy’s shoulder, or seek to speak of comfort.