It further appeared that Alfred had wished very much to see Miss Selby again, and that Mrs. King had sent the two sisters to the Grange to talk it over with Mrs. Crabbe, and word had been sent by Harold that morning that the young lady would come in the course of the afternoon.

Mr. Cope followed Mrs. King up-stairs; Alfred’s face lighted up as his sister Matilda made way for the clergyman.  He was very white, and his breath was oppressed; but his look had changed very much—­it had a strange, still sort of brightness and peace about it.  He spoke in very low tones, just above a whisper, and smiled as Mr. Cope took his hand, and spoke to him.

‘Thank you, Sir.  It is very nice,’ he said.

‘I thank God that He has let you wait for me,’ said Mr. Cope.

‘I am glad,’ said Alfred.  ’I did want to pray for it; but I thought, perhaps, if it was not His Will, I would not—­and then what you said.  And now He is making it all happy.’

‘And you do not grieve over your year of illness?’

‘I would not have been without it—­no,’ said Alfred, very quietly, but with much meaning.

‘"It is good for me that I have been in trouble,” is what you mean,’ said Mr. Cope.

‘It has made our Saviour seem—­I mean—­He is so good to me,’ said Alfred fervently.

But talking made him cough, and that brought a line in the fair forehead so full of peace.  Mr. Cope would not say more to him, and asked his mother whether the Feast, for which he had so much longed, should be on the following day.  She thought it best that it should be so; and Alfred again said, ‘Thank you, Sir,’ with the serene expression on his face.  Mr. Cope read a Psalm and a prayer to him, and thinking him equal to no more, went away, pausing, however, for a little talk with Paul in the shop.

Paul did not say so, but, poor fellow, he had been rather at a loss since Matilda had come.  In herself, she was a very good, humble, sensible girl; but she wore a dark silk dress, and looked, moved, and spoke much more like a lady than Ellen:  Paul stood in great awe of her, and her presence seemed all at once to set him aloof from the others.

He had been like one of themselves for the last three months, now he felt that he was like a beggar among them; he did not like to call Mrs. King mother, lest it should seem presuming; Ellen seemed to be raised up the same step as her sister, and even Alfred was almost out of his reach; Matilda read to him, and Paul’s own good feeling shewed him that he would be only in the way if he spent all his time in Alfred’s room as formerly; so he kept down-stairs in the morning, and went to bed very early.  Nobody was in the least unkind to him:  but he had just begun to grieve at being a burden so long, and to wonder how much longer he should be in getting his health again.  And then it might be only to be cast about the world, and to lose his one glimpse of home kindness.  Poor boy! he still cried at the thought of how happy Alfred was.