hundreds more whom I knew; and at last I saw myself too, and I was toiling and doing ever so little a piece of the great work.  Then it all melted away, and the power left me, and as it left me I thought I heard a voice say, ’The vision is for an appointed time; though it tarry, wait for it, for in the end it shall speak and not lie, it shall surely come, it shall not tarry.’  It was early morning I know, then—­it was so quiet and cool, and my mother was fast asleep in the chair by my bedside; but it wasn’t only a dream of mine.  I know it wasn’t a dream.  Then I fell into a deep sleep, and only woke after afternoon chapel; and the Doctor came and gave me the Sacrament, as I told you.  I told him and my mother I should get well—­I knew I should; but I couldn’t tell them why.  Tom,” said Arthur gently, after another minute, “do you see why I could not grieve now to see my dearest friend die?  It can’t be—­it isn’t—­all fever or illness.  God would never have let me see it so clear if it wasn’t true.  I don’t understand it all yet; it will take me my life and longer to do that—­to find out what the work is.”

When Arthur stopped there was a long pause.  Tom could not speak; he was almost afraid to breathe, lest he should break the train of Arthur’s thoughts.  He longed to hear more, and to ask questions.  In another minute nine o’clock struck, and a gentle tap at the door called them both back into the world again.  They did not answer, however, for a moment; and so the door opened, and a lady came in carrying a candle.

She went straight to the sofa, and took hold of Arthur’s hand, and then stooped down and kissed him.

“My dearest boy, you feel a little feverish again.  Why didn’t you have lights?  You’ve talked too much, and excited yourself in the dark.”

“Oh no, mother; you can’t think how well I feel.  I shall start with you to-morrow for Devonshire.  But, mother, here’s my friend—­here’s Tom Brown.  You know him?”

“Yes, indeed; I’ve known him for years,” she said, and held out her hand to Tom, who was now standing up behind the sofa.  This was Arthur’s mother:  tall and slight and fair, with masses of golden hair drawn back from the broad, white forehead, and the calm blue eye meeting his so deep and open—­the eye that he knew so well, for it was his friend’s over again, and the lovely, tender mouth that trembled while he looked—­she stood there, a woman of thirty-eight, old enough to be his mother, and one whose face showed the lines which must be written on the faces of good men’s wives and widows, but he thought he had never seen anything so beautiful.  He couldn’t help wondering if Arthur’s sisters were like her.

Tom held her hand, and looked on straight in her face; he could neither let it go nor speak.