All Fred attempted was the making his long-mediated request that he might visit his mother, and Uncle Geoffrey undertook to see whether it was possible.  Numerous messages passed, and at length it was arranged that on Sunday, just before afternoon service, when the house was quiet, his uncle should help him to her room, where his aunt would read to them both.

Frederick made quite a preparation for what was to him a great undertaking.  He sat counting the hours all the morning; and when at length the time arrived, his heart beat so violently, that it seemed to take away all the little strength he had.  His uncle came in, but waited a few moments; then said, with some hesitation, “Fred, you must be prepared to see her a good deal altered.”

“Yes,” said Fred, impatiently.

“And take the greatest care not to agitate her.  Can you be trusted?  I do not ask it for your own sake.”

“Yes,” said Fred, resolutely.

“Then come.”

And in process of time Fred was at her door.  There he quitted his uncle’s arm, and came forward alone to the large easy chair where she sat by the fire-side.  She started joyfully forward, and soon he was on one knee before her, her arms round his neck, her tears dropping on his face, and a quiet sense of excessive happiness felt by both.  Then rising, he sank back into another great chair, which his sister had arranged for him close to hers, and too much out of breath to speak, he passively let Henrietta make him comfortable there; while holding his mother’s hand, he kept his eyes fixed upon her, and she, anxious only for him, patted his cushions, offered her own, and pushed her footstool towards him.

A few words passed between Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Langford outside the door.

“I still think it a great risk,” said she.

“But I should not feel justified in preventing it,” was his answer, “only do not leave them long alone.”  Then opening the door he called, “Henrietta, there is the last bell.”  And Henrietta, much against her will, was obliged to go with him to Church.

“Good-bye, my dear,” said her mother.  “Think of us prisoners in the right way at Church, and not in the wrong one.”

Strangely came the sound of the Church bell to their ears through the window, half open to admit the breezy breath of spring; the cawing of the rooks and the song of the blackbird came with it; the sky was clear and blue, the buds were bursting into life.

“How very lovely it is!” added she.

Fred made a brief reply, but without turning his head to the window.  His eyes, his thoughts, his whole soul, were full of the contemplation of what was to him a thousand times more lovely,—­that frail wasted form, namely, whose hand he held.  The delicate pink colour which Henrietta had described was on her cheek, contrasting with the ivory whiteness of the rest of her face; the blue eyes shone with a sweet subdued brightness under their long black lashes;