He sat up for the last time that day.  It was a lovely day in May, and in the heat of the day he seemed to drink in the sweet atmosphere, as it came gently through the open window, laden with the scents of a hundred flowers.  Often his lips moved as if in prayer, and sometimes he spoke to his brother, and asked when Dunstan would come; but he was not equal to prolonged conversation.

At length one of the ceorls came riding in to say that the Bishop, with his retinue, was approaching the village, and Father Cuthbert went out to meet him.  The impatient anxiety of poor Elfric became painful to witness.

“He is coming, Elfric! he is coming!” said Alfred from the window.  “I see him near; see! he stops to salute Father Cuthbert, whom he knew years ago; I must go down to receive him.

“Mother!  You stay with Elfric.”

A sound as of many feet; another moment, a firm step was heard upon the stairs, and Dunstan entered the room.

He advanced to the bed, while all present stood in reverent silence, and gazed upon the patient with a look of such affection as a father might bestow upon a dying son as he took the weak nerveless hand.

Elfric looked round with a mute appeal which they all comprehended, and left him alone with Dunstan.

“Father, pardon me!” he said.

“Thou askest pardon of me, my son—­of me, a sinner like thyself; I cannot tell thee how freely I give it thee; and now, my son, unburden thyself before thy God, for never was it known that one pleaded to Him and was cast out.”

When, after an interval, Dunstan summoned the lady Edith and Alfred back into the room, a look cf such calm, placid composure, such satisfied happiness, sat upon his worn face, that they never forgot it.

“Surely,” thought they, “such is the expression the blessed will wear in heaven.”

And then, in their presence, Dunstan administered the Blessed Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ to the happy penitent; it was the first Communion which he had willingly made since he first left home, a bright happy boy of fifteen; and words would fail to describe the deep faith and loving penitence with which he gathered his dying strength to receive the Holy Mysteries.

And then Dunstan administered the last of all earthly rites—­the holy anointing;[xxxiii] while amidst their tears the mourners yet thought of Him Who vouchsafed to be anointed before He sanctified the grave to be a bed of hope to His people.

“Art thou happy now, my son?” said Dunstan, when all was over.

“Happy indeed! happy! yes, so happy!”

They were almost the last words he said, until an hour had passed and the sun had set, leaving the bright clouds suffused in rich purple, when he sat up in the bed.

“Mother!  Alfred!” he said, “do you hear that music?  Many are singing; surely that was father’s voice.  Oh! how bright!”

He fell back, and Dunstan began the solemn commendatory prayer, for he saw the last moment was come.