“’And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying:  neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away.’”

“Madame Vine, do you think mamma will be there?” he presently asked.  “I mean mamma that was.”

“Ay, ere long.”

“But how shall I know her?  You see, I have nearly forgotten what she was like.”

She leaned over him, laying her forehead upon his wasted arm, and burst into a flood of impassioned tears.  “You will know her, never fear, William; she has not forgotten you.”

“But how can we be sure that she will be there?” debated William, after a pause of thought.  “You know”—­sinking his voice, and speaking with hesitation—­“she was not quite good; she was not good enough to papa or to us.  Sometimes I think, suppose she did not grow good, and did not ask God to forgive her!”

“Oh, William!” sobbed the unhappy lady, “her whole life, after she left you, was one long scene of repentance, of seeking forgiveness.  Her repentance, her sorrow, was greater than she could bear, and——­”

“And what?” asked William, for there was a pause.

“Her heart broke in it—­yearning after you and your father.”

“What makes you think it?”

“Child, I know it!”

William considered.  Then, had he been strong enough, he would have started up with energy.  “Madame Vine, you could only know that by mamma’s telling you!  Did you ever see her?  Did you know her abroad?”

Lady Isabel’s thoughts were far away—­up in the clouds perhaps.  She reflected not on the possible consequences of her answer, or she had never given it.

“Yes, I knew her abroad.”

“Oh!” said the boy.  “Why did you never tell us?  What did she say?  What was she like?”

“She said”—­sobbing wildly—­“that she was parted from her children here; but she should meet them in Heaven, and be with them forever.  William, darling! all the awful pain, and sadness, and guilt of this world will be washed out, and God will wipe your tears away.”

“What was her face like?” he questioned softly.

“Like yours.  Very much like Lucy’s.”

“Was she pretty?”

A momentary pause.  “Yes.”

“Oh, dear, I am ill.  Hold me!” cried out William, as his head sank to one side, and great drops, as large as peas, broke forth upon his clammy face.  It appeared to be one of the temporary faint attacks that overpowered him at times lately, and Lady Isabel rang the bell hastily.

Wilson came in, in answer.  Joyce was the usual attendant upon the sick room; but Mrs. Carlyle, with her infant, was passing the day at the Grove; unconscious of the critical state of William, and she had taken Joyce with her.  It was the day following the trial.  Mr. Justice Hare had been brought to West Lynne in his second attack, and Barbara had gone to see him, to console her mother, and to welcome Richard to his