During that visit to London I became convinced of a fact which I had only half-known before-that if ever I married, Laura Vyvyan should be my wife. I could not ask her then, my means were insufficient to offer her such a home as her rank entitled her to expect. She had a small fortune of her own, but on that I would not calculate. I determined to wait (she was living with Lady Agnes Comyn, who was her greatest friend, and who had offered her a home) until Lady Agnes came to Leigh in the winter, having a firm confidence that she was, if not attached, at least not indifferent to me. So I came home to Hatherleigh with hope, and Philip came home with patience.

66

CHAPTER XVI.

SUNSET.

Cependant le soleil sur les ondes calmées
Touche de l'horizon les bornes inflammées;
Son disque étincelant, qui semble s'arrêter,

Revêt de pourpre et d'or les flots qu'il va quitter."

ESNEMARD.

In the winter Lady Agnes Comyn, with her husband, her children, and Miss Vyvyan, arrived at Leigh. It was then that I asked Laura to be my wife. I had loved her, in my quiet fashion, ever since I met her first at Excombe, and my love had grown stronger as I knew her more. She consented, and so made me a happy man. I had waited until I could offer her what I deemed a sufficiently assured future, and now there was no obstacle to our marriage. Philip was much pleased; he wished that Hatherleigh should continue to be our home, asking to be allowed to live there with us, as if I were the master, and not he. We decided on being married at the end of the next season; not for fashion's sake, but because I was engaged upon a work which it would require months of application to complete; and I wished to have time enough after our marriage for a long-wished-for tour in Switzerland.

One day they all came to dine with us at Hatherleigh-Lord Lynmouth, Mr. Comyn, Lady Agnes, and Laura. After dinner Lord Lynmouth stood near the fire talking to his daughter and son-in-law, and Laura, Philip and I sat at a little distance from them by a table. We had been speaking of the future, and of how pleasant it would be. Philip entered into all our plans as heartily as if they had been his own. “I shall leave all the house to you," he said, "but the little room; I shall ask you to let me have that for myself."

It was a room which had been furnished especially for Constance. "I wish you would play us some music, Miss Vyvyan,” said Philip presently; "will you?"

Laura hesitated; she knew that the piano had remained untouched

since it came to Hatherleigh; it was always locked, and Philip kept the key.

"I know why you hesitate," he said; "but indeed I wish that you would play to me to-night."

She rose and went to the piano with Philip; he opened it and sat down near her as she played.

Her fingers went softly over the keys. Last time we had heard those notes it was Constance who touched them, and sang, 'I will love no other love to all eternity.' Did Philip think of that as he sat listening to Beethoven's and Mendelssohn's music softly and beautifully played? The piano almost spoke under Laura's fingers.

They left Leigh early in the year, and we were all busy, Lord Lynmouth and Philip, about the church at Stonybridge. Philip was very anxious that it should be furnished as soon as possible; from the commencement he had wished the work to be done as soon as might be. It was to be completed in May, and accordingly one beautiful day in that month saw Philip, Lord Lynmouth, and me at the church, making a final inspection before the consecration, which was to take place on the next day. Lord Lynmouth had come from town on purpose to be present. While he and the architect and clergyman were making some arrangements inside the church, Philip and I stood in the churchyard together. The church was beautifully situated; although it lay in a valley, the hills sloped in soft outlines around it, and there were trees near-I love to see trees near a church.

"It is a pretty place," said Philip; "a still, green place, Ned. I should like you to bury me here when I die."

"Philip!"

"Yes," he said; "there, under those poplars. I always liked poplars; they grew around my old home, my father's house; I used to hear the leaves rustle before I fell asleep when I was a child. And, Ned, put a cross of the dear old Devon granite over me, and let the ivy grow on my grave, and nothing else."

"Oh, Philip!" I said, "why do you talk so?"

"Does it hurt you," he said, " to think of my death? I must say something else only one thing more-as I may die at any moment, and without warning. Will you be sure, Ned, to tell Constance that I forgive her that I forgive her fully? Be sure you remember this in case my death should be a sudden one."

And again, when we were in the church, and Lord Lynmouth, booking at the east window, which Philip had placed there in memory of his parents, said, "The next thing we must do for the church is to put a window to match this one in the west end," Philip made answer, "Yes, you and Ned shall put one there in memory of me." He said it half-unconsciously, as if it were a thought which had found words unawares.

Lord Lynmouth let it pass unnoticed then, but afterwards he said

to me,

"I wish we could get Philip to marry, and prevent his dwelling on the thoughts of dying. He looks much better now than he has done lately." But I did not think so.

Next day the church was consecrated. All the miners and their families had a dinner in the new cottages, given by Lord Lynmouth, and the bishop came to Leigh and stayed that day and the next.

Why do I dwell on these things? It is because I dread coming to what must follow.

In August I was obliged to go to London for a week, to see about some business connected with the publishing of my book. Lord Lynmouth was at Leigh; the summer in London had been too much for him, and as soon as Parliament was dissolved he came home for rest. The day before I left for London he dined with us, and after dinner we walked on the terrace smoking, until he went away. As Philip and I stood on the terrace after he was gone, Philip said to me,

"Ned, I wish when you are in London that you would try to see Constance. I do not suppose she will leave town for a day or two. Do try and see her, that I may know how she looks."

I promised to do so, and next morning, when Philip drove me to the station, he said again,

"Be sure you see Constance, and be sure you come back on Monday. Mind, I shall expect you; I shall come to meet the afternoon train."

I promised that I would return on the Monday.

"Ned, you will remember to give Constance my love and forgiveness if anything happens," he said again; "and if she should wish for anything of mine, when I am dead, let her have it, whatever it may be."

London was more bustling than ever when I arrived there; every one seemed to be moving at once, and the stations were crowded. I found all well at Lady Agnes's, but failed to see Constance, although I went every day to the Park. Lady Dunsmore was still in town, but neither did I meet Constance at her house.

One day when I was in the City, instead of returning to Lady Agnes Comyn's, I set my face in the old direction, and walked towards Street. As I went along I thought a traitorous thought. I would have given all the happiness that lay in Belgravia, could I have found the old life in Bloomsbury. Laura, forgive the thought! I would not wish it now. But, just then, my heart yearned for the old time, long gone by. I went to Street, and looked through the window into the room where Philip and I had lived and worked for fourteen years. It was changed, and yet the same. The furniture was there, the same sideboard and table, the same carpet and paper; but Philip's chair was gone, and the clock, and the writing table.

stood outside the window and stared into the room, lost in memories of the past, until some one came into it and pulled down the blind.

When I left the publisher's on Saturday he urged on me the necessity of remaining another week in London, and I was almost inclined to do so, but my promise to Philip made me determine to return to Hatherleigh. If I had not, I should have repented it for the rest of my life.

Philip was waiting for me; he asked, as we drove homewards, whether I had seen Constance, and seemed disappointed that I had not. When we arrived at Hatherleigh we found Lord Lynmouth there. At dinner, Philip and he and I talked as usual about my week in London, and what I had done there and whom I had seen.

After dinner we walked on the terrace. The evening was lovely, the sunset a very beautiful one. Philip and I sat on the garden seat watching how the gorgeous colours faded and melted away. We sat side by side, and Lord Lynmouth stood by us talking.

"How beautiful it is!" he said, looking at the western sky. “Look, Philip, at those golden bars."

"Yes," said Philip dreamily; "they might be the gates of Heaven." "Yes," said Lord Lynmouth. "Philip, what do you believe about Heaven? Shall we know each other there?"

The suddenness of the question, coming from him, surprised me. "I cannot tell," said Philip.

"I can scarcely believe that Heaven will be a place of happiness unless we do. It is there that I hope to see Agnes again. What would Heaven be without those we love ?"

"But supposing that we missed some one ?"

Lord Lynmouth was silent. Did he think of his eldest son?

"Whether we know one another, or whether we do not," said Philip, "there will be a perfect happiness, a happiness that will satisfy every soul, and no feeling of loss. Those whom I loved dearly have diedmy father and my mother; and yet, I think, I feel, that it is not for them that I shall look in the Golden City. The love of God is so infinite, so wonderful, so sufficient, that our affections will be as nothing in its immensity. Whether the loved are there, or whether we know them or not, will not be our thought then. No, we shall see the Father who has loved and cared for us unceasingly; the great, the awful, the loving God; the Saviour who lived a life of sorrows, and died a death of agony for our sakes; the glory of the Godhead, the unspeakable blessedness of the redeemed. When the old life fades away, and the new life begins, will it not be enough that we are with God our Father ?"

He ceased speaking, his voice had sunk almost to a whisper.

"Philip," said Lord Lynmouth, "I wish I had your faith ;" and he walked away along the terrace.

Philip was leaning against me. We sat in silence, until the lights

had faded in the sky and the stars came out. I felt that Philip leant heavily against me, and thought he was asleep.

Lord Lynmouth came near us again.

"The dew is falling heavily," he said; "you ought to come in." "I think Philip is asleep."

He spoke to him, but Philip never moved nor answered. Then I touched him. His hand was cold! An awful dread seized me. "Lord Lynmouth!" I cried, " Philip is dead!"

"It cannot be !" he said.

But it was true-dead!-who so lately had lived and spoken-dead and cold!

Oh grief unspeakable! oh loss that no words can rightly tell of! We lifted him, and through the open window carried him into the drawing-room and laid him on the sofa in the corner-Philip, who was dead!

LORD LYNMOUTH was very kind and thoughtful in those sad dark times. He came to Hatherleigh every day, and helped me to make all the necessary arrangements consequent on Philip's death. Every night, before he left Hatherleigh, Lord Lynmouth urged me to sleep, and leave my watch to others; but I would not. No one but I should stay by Philip while he yet remained to me. How much I regretted that week which I had lost by being in London is more than I can tell, but on the whole I was grateful that the end had been as it was. I could see, even in my bitterest grief, that God had in this been most merciful to Philip. He had given him a quiet, peaceful, almost a happy time, between his sorrow and his death: a rest from care and trouble, and nearly from pain; for Philip had suffered but little in those last years. A sunset quiet and peace had hung over them. It was a fitting end to his life. Occupied for the good of others, busy from morning until night in works of usefulness and kindness. How much more noble was this than a life spent in sorrow and repining! His grief had left him unchanged, nay, rather it had purified and elevated a character naturally pure and noble.

I had spent three nights alone with my dead, but on the fourth night I had two visitors. The first was Lady Dunsmore; she came for the funeral, and we were prepared for her. It was late in the evening when she arrived. Lord Lynmouth had gone home, we had ceased to expect her that day, and my lonely watch had begun. She