understand then; I cannot say more now. Speaking of my funeral reminds me that no lips but yours must say over me those glorious words, and you must think while you say them, Now is he glad because he is at rest, for GOD hath brought him unto the haven where he would be! Do you remember my dream? Who shall say I may not minister to you yet, though not as a Curate? And now, my own master, friend, and Priest, can you promise a compliance with all my wishes ?"

"As faithfully, Arthur, as I hope my own will be complied with when I feel they are my last."

"Then now pray for me, and say a blessing over me, that I may try and sleep. Nay, let me rest on your bosom a little longer," he continued, as Mr. Huntingford attempted to withdraw his arm, in order to kneel; "I love that pillow so dearly-and yet there is a softer one awaiting me!

"How sweet to rest,

For ever on my SAVIOUR's breast!"

His voice was becoming heavy; still he murmured fragments of holy things, as was his wont at such times. "The angels never sleep, do they? Rejoice in their beds-joyful with glory-without fault before the throne of GOD without fault! Are they not all ministering spirits? When He calleth them, they say, ' Here we be !' I look for the Resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. We shall be all together therefather-mother-Lucy. Oh happy! happy!"

The drooping eyelid and almost inarticulate voice betokened approaching slumber; and fearful of rousing him by a change of position, Mr. Huntingford repeated as he stood the prayers from the Visitation of the Sick. As he concluded, a smile passed over the sufferer's face, and he whispered, 'Hast thou not a blessing for me, oh my father? I am very sleepy. Bring Lucy to me early to-morrow. Come with her, will you? God bless them! Dear, precious, best of mothers-GOD bless you all. Say a blessing over me, and then I will lay me down peace and take my rest."

in

Mr. Huntingford laid his disengaged hand on the lad's head, and gave him the blessing.

"Once more, my Pastor-guide-dear brother-once more!"

Again the blessing was said; but before it was concluded, he for whom it was invoked was blessed indeed. Heavily sunk the head on the faithful breast against which it leaned, and Arthur Montague had lain him down and taken his rest-the rest prepared for the people of GOD!

Basil Huntingford stood transfixed with a feeling for which it would be impossible to find a name. Well as he was prepared for the scene before him, it was some minutes ere he could realize it; but when he kissed the pure angel brow, and met with no answering caress,when he pressed the hand he still held, and felt no returning pressure,-when he gently uttered the words, "Dearest Arthur," and heard not the gentle reply, " My master, what is it ?" then he knew that he whom he had loved with a love passing the love of woman, was, as regarded this world, lost to him for ever; and falling on his knees, he burst into tears as he ejaculated, “I thank Thee that Thou hast called him! Even so, FATHER! for so it seemed good in Thy sight!”

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After a night spent in prayer by the death-bed of his beloved pupil, Basil Huntingford recollected the request which had struck him at the time as singular, "Bring Lucy early-come with her yourself!" He now understood that when Arthur had so spoken he had felt within himself it was only the corruptible and mortal part on which they would look. By Susan's advice, the slumbers of the mother and sister were undisturbed by the mournful intelligence which it would be Mr. Huntingford's sad duty to convey to them when that rest had better prepared them for it. Poor Susan had, with many tears, performed the last offices for him she had so faithfully loved and served from his cradle; and ere the wasted hands were stiffened in the rigour of Death, Basil Huntingford had crossed them over the breast, in the attitude he had ever seen them placed in prayer.

And there lay Arthur,-calm, and exquisitely lovely ; the smile with which he had received the Priestly blessing,

yet lingering on his pale lips, and a look of peaceful beauty spreading over his countenance, which suggested the idea that "good angels had been ornamenting his body, to show that it had been the habitation of a friend of theirs."

The earliest day-dawn struggled with the faint beams of the night lamp, and Basil knelt, and watched and prayed by him who, for the first time acknowledged not his vigilance, when a light step in the next room, which he knew to be Lucy's, caught his ear. It was the hour at which she usually paid her earliest visit to Arthur, soon after he himself had left the house. Hastily, but noiselessly, he rose, and was but just in time to prevent her entering. He drew her gently back; but to her look of surprise at seeing him still there, and her hurried question, "What is the matter ?" his quivering lip had for a moment no power to reply. She marked his emotion-guessed the truth-and would have fallen, but he caught her, and whispered, as he placed her on a seat, "He is happy now. His body resteth in peace, but his soul liveth for evermore."

He was not sorry to see her give way to a burst of anguish, which he suffered her to indulge, till, fearing she would be exhausted, he took her hand, and again whispered, "Your mother, dear Miss Montague,-she will look to you now as her only earthly comfort!"

By a strong effort she checked her sobs, and buried her face in the cushions, where, but a few hours before, she had kissed the dear lips now cold in death. In a short time she raised her head and looked at Mr. Huntingford, then towards the room where Arthur lay. understood her, and taking the chamber lamp, drew her arm within his own, led her in, and upheld her trembling form, as together they gazed on the beautiful one stretched in "frozen serenity" before them.

He

Not a word was spoken-not a tear shed. Too agonizing were her feelings, her companion's too deep-to admit of such relief, and she offered no opposition to his replacing the sheet over that angel face, and drawing her out of the room. When in the next, she sunk on her knees, and in stifled accents said, "Pray for me! pray for me!"

VOL. XIX.

"I will pray for you!" he said, earnestly, "and I will tell you also that nearly the last words of that dear saint were to invoke a blessing upon you."

He could say no more, for at that instant he heard Mrs. Montague's step, and leaving Lucy kneeling, he hastened to meet her. His countenance told the tale before his tongue could reveal it; and that humble, chastened, and beautiful spirit received it with the same childlike submission she had received every other stroke from the ALMIGHTY's rod.

"She dare not grudge to leave him there,

Where to behold him was her heart's first prayer;
She dare not grieve-but she must weep,

As her pale, placid martyr sinks to sleep."

Her first inquiry was for Lucy; and Basil Huntingford left the mother and daughter to pour out their hearts together, while he proceeded to examine the trust which had been reposed in him by Arthur. The money he had mentioned was carefully sealed up, and with it a sketch of the cross he desired should be placed over his grave. One of several small packets was inscribed to his mother; another to Lucy; a third to Leslie. Apart from these was the one to which he had alluded as not to be opened till after his burial; it was addressed, "To my most fondly-loved master, whom may Heaven reward seven-fold into his bosom for all the good he has done to me." rest were chiefly memorials to all who had waited on him, or shown him kindness, with a few lines for each, expressive of his grateful sense of their attentions, and a hope that through CHRIST's mediation they should meet again where he should no longer be a burden on them.

The

It will not be doubted that, as regarded his last restingplace, his request was complied with. Within hearing of the organ, and where those most dearly loved, and loving best, would pass it daily, was it chosen; and as soon as the time sufficed, it was designated by a stone cross, bearing only the inscription—

"Here sleeps the body of ARTHUR MONTAGUE, who, in the faith and fear of GOD, and in full communion with His Church, departed this life, Jan. 1st, 18-, aged 19 years. 'He that taketh not his cross and followeth after Me, is not worthy of Me !' "'

Alone, and in his little study the first time after he had committed the body of his loved pupil to the ground, Basil Huntingford opened the packet before mentioned, a glance at the contents of which had power to flush that pale face with a deeper crimson dye than, perhaps, it had ever been seen to wear before; and which gave place, an instant after, to an even more deathlike hue than that which it had dispelled. "FATHER in Heaven!" he exclaimed, "dost Thou indeed quicken the mental vision of Thy dying saints till they behold what we deemed known to Thine Omniscience only!"

He remained for some minutes as if spell-bound, gazing on what he held; then pressed it with fervour to his lips, and proceeded to read a long and closely-written letter, which also formed part of the contents of the packet. Its perusal affected him deeply, and was interrupted by more than one blinding gush of tears.

"Oh Arthur! my angel Arthur!" he said, as he concluded it, "might it but be according to thy wish! But my duty forbids it, and that alone is dearer to me than—”

man.

Further utterance was impeded by a burst of anguish, to which, at that moment the past, the present and the future lent their combined bitterness. The storm, though severe, was short: the rays of a FATHER's love beamed through the clouds wherewith the Enemy had enshrouded his soul, and once more the Christian triumphed over the Those who a few hours afterwards met their Pastor in the house of prayer, little recked of the agony which had torn his gentle heart since last they knelt with him there. But few traces of it were visible, and they might well be attributed to the effect produced on him by the morning's mournful task: for all knew how he had loved Arthur, and it was natural, they thought, that he should sorrow for his loss.

He sorrowed not. Could a word have brought him back, that word would never have been spoken by Basil Huntingford; and in all sincerity he thanked GOD, Who had gathered His sheaf into the garner,-His jewel into His treasury; and he fervently prayed for grace so to follow the good example of him he had so truly loved, that with him he might be partaker of the Heavenly kingdom.