Alfred did not answer; he could not command his composure.

“And when you all come to the priory church on Sundays, and Father Cuthbert, or whoever shall come after him, sings the mass, you will remember me and breathe my name in your prayers when they say the memento for the faithful dead; and again, there shall be little children learning their paters and their sweet little prayers, as you and I learned them at our mother’s knee:  and you will show them my tomb, where I shall rest with dear father, and perhaps my story may be a warning to them.  But you must never forget to show them how brotherly love was stronger than death when the old hall was burnt.

“After all,” he continued, “our separation won’t be long, the longest day comes to an end, and a thousand years are with Him as one day.  We shall all be united at last—­father, mother, Alfred, Edgitha, Elfric.  Do you not hear the Easter bells?”

They retraced their steps to the priory church for the services of Easter Eve.

“And one thing more, dear Alfred; you think me a strange penitent, that I am long, very long, before I make my confession.  You do not know how I sigh for Communion; it is three years since I communicated, nearly four.  But, Alfred, there is one who tried to stop me when I began going downward, downward, and I feel as if I must have his forgiveness before I can communicate, and it is to him I want to make my last confession.  You know whom I mean; he is in England now and near.”

“I do indeed.”

“Now you know my secret, let us go into church.”

Oh, how sweetly those Easter psalms and lessons spoke to Alfred and Elfric that night; how sweetly the tidings of a risen Saviour sounded in their ears.  Easter joy was joy indeed.  The very heavens seemed brighter that night, the moon—­the Paschal moon—­seemed to gladden the earth and render it a Paradise, like that happy Eden of old times, before sin entered its holy seclusion.

Easter tide was over, and Ascension drew near, but the sweet month of May had done little to restore health to poor Elfric.  He had scarcely ever had a day free from pain.  His eye was brighter than ever, but his attenuated face told a sad tale of the decay of the vital power.

From the time that Alfred knew how his brother yearned for Dunstan’s forgiveness, and that he would be shriven by none but him, he had sought to accomplish his wish.  He heard that Dunstan had returned from abroad, and was about to be consecrated Bishop of Worcester, and to be their own diocesan, and he sought an early opportunity of seeing him.

At last, but not until after Dunstan’s consecration, he gained the opportunity, not without much delay; for Dunstan was sometimes in Worcester, sometimes in London, which had thrown off Edwy’s authority, and submitted, with all Essex, to Edgar; sometimes ordaining, sometimes confirming, sometimes assisting Edgar in the government; and he was, like all other great men, very inaccessible.