He thought with sadness, how all the haunts of his childhood would pass to others, who would feel no love or reverence for them; that the house would be the same, but sounding with new steps, and ringing with new laughter.  A little further thought, however, soon satisfied him that places die as well as their dwellers; that, by slow degrees, their forms are wiped out; that the new tastes obliterate the old fashions; and that ere long the very shape of the house and farm would be lapped, as it were, about the tomb of him who had been the soul of the shape, and would vanish from the face of the earth.

All the old things at home looked sad.  The look came from this, that, though he could sympathize with them and their story, they could not sympathize with him, and he suffused them with his own sadness.  He could find no refuge in the past; he must go on into the future.

His mother lingered for some time without any evident change.  He sat by her bedside the most of the day.  All she wanted was to have him within reach of her feeble voice, that she might, when she pleased, draw him within touch of her feeble hand.  Once she said: 

“My boy, I am going to your father.”

“Yes, mother, I think you are,” Hugh replied.  “How glad he will be to see you!”

“But I shall leave you alone.”

“Mother, I love God.”

The mother looked at him, as only a mother can look, smiled sweetly, closed her eyes as with the weight of her contentment, fell asleep holding his hand, and slept for hours.

Meanwhile, in London, Margaret was watching Euphra.  She was dying, and Margaret was the angel of life watching over her.

“I shall get rid of my lameness there, Margaret, shall I not?” said Euphra, one day, half playfully.

“Yes, dear.”

“It will be delightful to walk again without pain.”

“Perhaps you will not get rid of it all at once, though.”

“Why do you think so?” asked Euphra, with some appearance of uneasiness.

“Because, if it is taken from you before you are quite willing to have it as long as God pleases, by and by you will not be able to rest, till you have asked for it back again, that you may bear it for his sake.”

“I am willing, Margaret, I am willing.  Only one can’t like it, you know.”

“I know that,” answered Margaret.

She spoke no more, and Margaret heard her weeping gently.  Half an hour had passed away, when she looked up, and said: 

“Margaret, dear, I begin to like my lameness, I think.”

“Why, dear?”

“Why, just because God made it, and bade me bear it.  May I not think it is a mark on me from his hand?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Why do you think it came on me?”

“To walk back to Him with, dear.”

“Yes, yes; I see it all.”

Until now, Margaret had not known to what a degree the lameness of Euphra had troubled her.  That her pretty ankle should be deformed, and her light foot able only to limp, had been a source of real distress to her, even in the midst of far deeper.