The east wind had been swept aside by gales from the warm south, and the
spring was bursting out everywhere; the sky looked softly blue, instead
of hard and chill; the sun made everything glisten: the hedges were full
of catkins; white buds were on the purple twigs of the blackthorns;
primroses were looking out on the sunny side of the road; the larks were
mounting up, singing as if they were wild with delight; and the sunbeams
were full of dancing gnats, as the Curate of Friarswood walked, with
quick eager steps, towards the bridge.
His eyes were anxiously bent on the house, watching the white smoke
rising from the chimney; then he hastened on to gain the first sight at
the upper windows, feeling almost as he could have done had it been a
brother who lay there; so much was his heart set on the first whom he had
striven to help through the valley of the shadow of death. The window
was open, but the blind was not drawn; and almost at the same moment the
gate opened, some one looked out, and seeing him, waved his hand and arm
in joyful signal towards some one within, and this gesture set Mr. Cope's
heart at rest.
Was it Harold? No, it was Paul Blackthorn, who stood leaning on the
wicket, as he held it open for the clergyman, at whom he looked up as if
expecting some change, and a little surprised to find the same voice and
manner.
'Well, Paul, then he is not worse?'
'No, Sir, thank you, he is better. The pain has left him, and he can
speak again,' said Paul, but not very cheerfully.
'That is a great comfort! But who's that?' as a head, not Ellen's,
appeared for a moment at the window.
'That's Miss King, Sir--Miss Matilda!'
'Oh! Well, and how are the bones, Paul? Better, I hope, since I see you
are come out with the bees,' said Mr. Cope, laying his hand kindly on his
shoulder (a thing fit to touch now, since it was in a fustian coat of
poor Alfred's), and accommodating his swift strong steps to the feeble
halt with which Paul still moved.
'Thank you, Sir, yes; I've been down here twice when the sun was out,' he
said, as if it were a grand undertaking; but then, with a sudden smile,
'and poor Caesar knew me, Sir; he came right across the road, and wagged
his tail, and licked my hand.'
'Good old Caesar! You were his best friend, Paul.--Well, Mrs. King, this
is a blessing!'
Mrs. King looked sadly worn out with nursing, and her eyes were full of
tears.
'Yes, Sir,' she said, 'indeed it is. My poor darling has been so much
afraid he was too much set on your coming home, and yet so patient and
quiet about it.'
'Then you ventured to wait?'
And Mr. Cope heard that the attack of inflammation had given way to
remedies, but that Alfred was so much weakened, that they could not raise
him again. He was sustained by as much nourishment as they could give
him: but the disease had made great progress, and Mr. Blunt did not think
that he could last many days. His eldest sister had come for a fortnight
from her place, and was a great comfort to them all. 'And so is Paul,'
said Mrs. King, looking for him kindly; 'I don't know what we should do
without his help up-stairs and down. And, Sir, yesterday,' she added,
colouring a good deal--'I beg your pardon, but I thought, maybe, you'd
like to hear it--Alfred would have nobody else up with him in morning
church-time--and made him read the most--of that Service, Sir.'
Mr. Cope's eyes glistened, and he said something huskily of being glad
that Alfred could think of it.
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.
He did all he could to be useful, but he could scarcely manage to stoop
down, could carry nothing heavy, and moved very slowly; and he now and
then made a dreadful muddle in the shop, when a customer was not like
Mrs. Hayward, who told him where everything was, and the price of all she
wanted, as well as Mrs. King could do herself. He could sort the letters
and see to the post-office very well; and for all his blunders, he did so
much by his good-will, that when Mrs. King wanted to cheer him up, she
declared that he saved her all the expense of having in a woman from the
village to help, and that he did more about the house than Harold.
This was true: for Harold did not like doing anything but manly things,
as he called them; whereas Paul did not care what it was, so that it
saved trouble to her or Ellen.
Talking and listening to Harold was one use of Paul. Now that it had
come upon him, and he saw Alfred worse from day to day, the poor boy was
quite broken-hearted. Possibly, when at his work, or riding, he managed
to shake off the remembrance; but at home it always came back, and he
cried so much at the sight of Alfred, and at any attempt of his brother
to talk to him, that they could scarcely let him stay ten minutes in the
room. Then, when Paul had gone to bed on the landing at seven o'clock,
he would come and sit on his bed, and talk, and cry, and sob about his
brother, and his own carelessness of him, often till his mother came out
and ordered him down-stairs to his own bed in the kitchen; and Paul
turned his face into the pillow to weep himself to sleep, loving Alfred
very little less than did his brother, but making less noise about it,
and feeling very lonely when he saw how all the family cared for each
other.
So Mr. Cope's kind manner came all the more pleasantly to him; and after
some talk on what they both most cared about, Mr. Cope said, 'Paul, Mr.
Shaw of Berryton tells me he has a capital school-master, but in rather
weak health, and he wants to find a good intelligent youth to teach under
him, and have opportunities of improving himself. Five pounds a year,
and board and lodgings. What do you think of it, Paul?'
Paul's sallow face began growing red, and he polished the counter, on
which he was leaning; then, as Mr. Cope repeated, 'Eh, Paul?' he said
slowly, and in his almost rude way, 'They wouldn't have me if they knew
how I'd been brought up.'
'Perhaps they would if they knew what you've come to in spite of bringing
up. And,' added Mr. Cope, 'they are not so much pressed for time but
that they can wait till you've quite forgotten your tumble into the
Ragglesford. We must fatten you--get rid of those spider-fingers, and
you and I must do a few more lessons together--and I think Mrs. King has
something towards your outfit; and by Whitsuntide, I told Mr. Shaw that I
thought I might send him what I call a very fair sample of a good steady
lad.'
Paul did not half seem to take it in--perhaps he was too unhappy, or it
sounded like sending him away again; or, maybe, such a great step in life
was more than he could comprehend, after the outcast condition to which
he had been used: but Mr. Cope could not go on talking to him, for the
Grange carriage was stopping at the gate, and Matilda and Ellen were both
coming down-stairs to receive Miss Jane. Poor little thing, she looked
very pale and nervous; and as she shook hands with the Curate, as he met
her in the garden-path, she said with a startled manner, 'Oh! Mr.
Cope--were you there? Am I interrupting--?'
'Not at all,' he said. 'I had only called in as I came home, and had
just come down again.'
'Is it--is it very dreadful?' murmured Jane, with a sort of gasp. She
was so entirely unused to scenes of sadness or pain, that it was very
strange and alarming to her, and it was more difficult than ever to
believe her no younger than Ellen.
'Very far from dreadful or distressing,' said Mr. Cope kindly, for he
knew it was not her fault that she had been prevented from overcoming
such feelings, and that this was a great effort of kindness. 'It is a
very peaceful, soothing sight--he is very happy, and not in a suffering
state.'
'Oh, will you tell Grandmamma?' said Jane, with her pretty look of
earnestness; 'she is so much afraid of its much for me, and she was so
kind in letting me come.'
So Miss Selby went on to the two sisters, and Mr. Cope proceeded to the
carriage, where Lady Jane had put out her head, glad to be able to ask
him about the state of affairs. Having nothing but this little grand-
daughter left to her, the old lady watched over her with almost
over-tender care, and was in much alarm both lest the air of the sick-
room should be unwholesome, or the sight too sorrowful for her; and
though she was too kind to refuse the wish of the dying boy, she had come
herself, in order that 'the child,' as she called her, might not stay
longer than was good for her; and she was much relieved to hear Mr.
Cope's account of Alfred's calm state, and of the freshness of the clean
room, in testimony of which he pointed to the open window.
'Yes,' she said, 'I hope Mary King was wise enough; but I hardly knew how
it might be with such a number about the house--that boy and all. He is
not gone, is he?'
'No, he is not nearly well enough yet, though he does what he can to be
useful to her. When he is recovered, I have a scheme for him.'
So Mr. Cope mentioned Mr. Shaw's proposal, by which my Lady set more
store than did Paul as yet. Very kind-hearted she was, though she did
not fancy adopting chance-comers into her parish; and as long as he was
not saddled upon Mary King, as she said, she was very glad of any good
for him; so she told Mr. Cope to come to her for what he might want to
fit him out properly for the situation; and turning her keen eyes on him
as he stood near the cottage door, pronounced that, after all, he was a
nice, decent-looking lad enough, which certainly her Ladyship would not
have said before his illness.
Miss Jane did not stay long. Indeed, Alfred could not talk to her, and
she did not know what to say to him; she could only stand by his bed,
with the tears upon her cheeks, making little murmuring sounds in answer
to Mrs. King, who said for her son what she thought he wished to have
said. Meanwhile, Jane was earnestly looking at him, remarking with awe,
that, changed as he was since she had last seen him--so much more wasted
away--the whole look of his face was altered by the gentleness and peace
that it had gained, so as to be like the white figure of a saint.
She could not bear it when Mrs. King told her Alfred wanted to thank her
for all her kindness in coming to see him. 'Oh, no,' she said, 'I was
not kind at all;' and her tears would not be hindered. 'Only, you know,
I could not help it.'
Alfred gave her a bright look. Any one could see what a pleasure it was
to him to be looking at her again, though he did not repent of his share
in the sacrifice for Paul's sake. No, if Paul had been given up that
Miss Jane might come to him, Alfred would not have had the training that
made all so sweet and calm with him now. He turned his head to the
little picture, and said, 'Thank you, Ma'am, for that. That's been my
friend.'
'Yes, indeed it has, Miss Jane,' said his mother. 'There's nothing you
ever did for him that gave him the comfort that has been.'
'And please, Ma'am,' said Alfred, 'will you tell my Lady--I give her my
duty--and ask her pardon for having behaved so bad--and Mrs. Crabbe--and
the rest?'
'I will, Alfred; but every one has forgiven that nonsense long ago.'
'It was very bad of me,' said Alfred, pausing for breath; 'and so it was
not to mind you--Miss Jane--when you said I was ill for a warning.'
'Did I?' said Jane.
'Yes--in hay-time--I mind it--I didn't mind for long--but 'twas true. He
had patience with me.'
The cough came on, and Jane knew she must go; her grandmother had bidden
her not to stay if it were so, and she just ventured to squeeze Alfred's
hand, and then went down-stairs, checking her tears, to wish Matilda and
Ellen good-bye; and as she passed by Paul, told him not to uncover his
still very short-haired head, and kindly hoped he was better.
Paul, in his dreary feelings, hardly thought of Mr. Cope's plan, till, as
he was getting the letters ready for Harold, he turned up one in Mr.
Cope's writing, addressed to the 'Rev. A. Shaw, Berryton, Elbury.'
'That's to settle for me, then,' he said; and Harold who was at tea,
asking, 'What's that?' he explained.
'Well,' said Harold, 'every one to his taste! I wouldn't go to school
again, not for a hundred pounds; and as to _keeping_ school!' (Such a
face as he made really caused Paul to smile.) 'Nor you don't half like
it, neither,' continued Harold. 'Come, you'd better stay and get work
here! I'd sooner be at the plough-tail all day, than poke out my eyes
over stuff like that,' pointing to Paul's slate, covered with figures.
'Here, Nelly,' as she moved about, tidying the room, 'do you hear? Mr.
Cope's got an offer of a place for Paul--five pounds a year, and board
and lodging, to be school-master's whipper-in, or what d'ye call it?'
'What do you say, Harold?' cried Ellen, putting her hands on the back of
a chair, quite interested. 'You going away, Paul?'
'Mr. Cope says so--and I must get my living, you know,' said Paul.
'But not yet; you are not well enough yet,' said the kind girl. 'And
where did you say--?'
'To Berryton.'
'Berryton--oh! that's just four miles out on the other side of Elbury,
where Susan Congleton went to live that was housemaid at the Grange. She
says it's such a nice place, and such beautiful organ and singing at
church! And what did you say you were to be, Paul?'
'I'm to help the school-master.'
'Gracious me!' cried Ellen. 'Why, such a scholar as you are, you'll be
quite a gentleman yet, Paul. Why, they school-masters get fifty or sixty
pounds salaries sometimes. I protest it's the best thing I've heard this
long time! Was it Mr. Cope's doing, or my Lady's?'
'Mr. Cope's,' said Paul, beginning to think he had been rather less
grateful than he ought.
'Ah! it is like him,' said Ellen, 'after all the pains he has taken with
you. And you'll not be so far off, Paul: you'll come to see us in the
holidays, you know.'
'To be sure he will,' said Harold; 'or if he don't, I shall go and fetch
him.'
'Of course he will,' said Ellen, with her hand on Paul's chair, and
speaking low and affectionately to console him, as she saw him so
downcast; 'don't you know how poor Alfy says he's come to be instead of a
son to Mother, and a brother to us? I must go up and tell Alf and
mother. They'll be so pleased.'
Paul felt very differently about the plan now. All the house
congratulated him upon it, and Matilda evidently thought more of him now
that she found he was to have something to do. But such things as these
were out of sight beside that which was going on in the room above.
Alfred slept better that night, and woke so much revived, that they
thought him better: and Harold, greatly comforted about him, stood
tolerably quietly by his side, listening to one or two things that Alfred
had longed for months past to say to him.
'Promise me, Harold dear, that you'll be a good son to Mother: you'll be
the only one now.'
Harold made a bend of his head like a promise.
'O Harold, be good to her!' went on Alfred earnestly; 'she's had so much
trouble! I do hope God will leave you to her--if you are steady and
good. Do, Harold! She's not like some, as don't care what their lads
get to. And don't take after me, and be idle! Be right-down good,
Harold, as Paul is; and when you come to be ill--oh! it won't be so bad
for you as it was for me!'
'I do want to be good,' sighed Harold. 'If I'd only been confirmed; but
'twas all along of them merries last summer!'
'And I was such a plague to you--I drove you out,' said Alfred.
'No, no, I was a brute to you! Oh! Alfy, Alfy, if I could only get back
the time!'
He was getting to the sobs that hurt his brother; and his sister was
going to interfere; but Alfred said:
'Never mind, Harold dear, we've been very happy together, and we'll
always love each other. You'll not forget Alf, and you'll be Mother's
good son to take care of her! Won't you?'
So Harold gave that promise, and went away with his tears. Poor fellow,
now was his punishment for having slighted the Confirmation. Like Esau,
an exceeding bitter cry could not bring back what he had lightly thrown
away. Well was it for him that this great sorrow came in time, and that
it was not altogether his birthright that he had parted with. He found
he could not go out to his potato-planting and forget all about it, as he
would have liked to have done--something would not let him; and there he
was sitting crouched up and sorrowful on the steps of the stairs, when
Mr. Cope and all the rest were gathered in Alfred's room, a church for
the time. Matilda and Ellen had set out the low table with the fair
white cloth, and Mr. Cope brought the small cups and paten, which were
doubly precious to him for having belonged to his father, and because the
last time he had seen them used had been for his father's last Communion.
Now was the time to feel that a change had really passed over the young
pastor in the time of his absence. Before, he could only lead Alfred in
his prayers, and give him counsel, tell him to hope in his repentance,
and on what that hope was founded. Now that he had bent beneath the hand
of the Bishop, he had received, straight down from the Twelve, the Power
from on High. It was not Mr. Cope, but the Lord Who had purchased that
Pardon by His own most Precious Blood, Who by him now declared to Alfred
that the sins and errors of which he had so long repented, were pardoned
and taken away. The Voice of Authority now assured him of what he had
been only told to hope and trust before. And to make the promise all the
more close and certain, here was the means of becoming a partaker of the
Sacrifice--here was that Bread and that Cup which shew forth the Lord's
Death till He come. It was very great rest and peace, the hush that was
over the quiet room, with only Alfred's hurried breath to be heard beside
Mr. Cope's voice as he spoke the blessed words, and the low responses of
the little congregation. Paul was close beside Alfred--he would have him
there between his mother and the wall--and the two whose first Communion
it was, were the last to whom Mr. Cope came. To one it was to be the
Food for the passage into the unseen world; to the other might it be the
first partaking of the Manna to support him through the wilderness of
this life.
'From the highways and hedges,' here was one brought into the foretaste
of the Marriage Supper. Ah! there was one outside, who had loved idle
pleasure when the summons had been sent to him. Perhaps the misery he
was feeling now might be the means of sparing him from missing other
calls, and being shut out at last.
It seemed to fulfil all that Alfred had wished. He lay still between
waking and sleeping for a long time afterwards, and then begged for Paul
to read to him the last chapters of the Book of Revelation. Matilda
wished to read them for him; but he said, 'Paul, please.' Paul's voice
was fuller and softer when it was low; his accent helped the sense, and
Alfred was more used to them than to his visitor sister. Perhaps there
was still another reason, for when Paul came to the end, and was turning
the leaves for one of Alfred's favourite bits, he saw Alfred's eyes on
him, as if he wanted to speak. It was to say, 'Brothers quite now, Paul!
Thank you. I think God must have sent you to help me.'
Alfred seemed better all the evening, and they went to bed in good
spirits; but at midnight, Mr. Cope, who was very deeply studying and
praying, the better to fit himself for his new office in the ministry,
was just going to shut his book, and go up to bed, when he heard a
tremulous ring at the bell.
It was Harold, his face looking very white in the light from Mr. Cope's
candle.
'Oh! please, Sir,' he said, 'Alfred is worse; and Mother said, if your
light wasn't out, you'd like to know.'
'I am very grateful to her,' said Mr. Cope; and taking up his plaid, he
wrapped one end round the boy, and put his arm round him, as he felt him
quaking as Paul had done before, but not crying--too much awe-struck for
that. He said that his mother thought something had broken in the lungs,
and that he would be choked. Mr. Cope made the more haste, that he might
judge if the doctor would be of any use.
Paul was sitting up in his bed--they had not let him get up--but his eyes
were wide open with distress, as he plainly heard the loud sob that each
breath had become. Mrs. King was holding Alfred up in her arms; Matilda
was trying to chafe his feet; Ellen was kneeling with her face hidden.
The light of sense and meaning was not gone from Alfred's eyes, though
the last struggle had come. He gave a look as though he were glad to see
Mr. Cope, and then gazed on his brother. Mrs. King signed to Harold to
come nearer, and whispered, 'Kiss him.' His sisters had done so, and he
had missed Harold. Then Mr. Cope prayed, and Alfred's eyes at first
owned the sounds; but soon they were closed, and the long struggling
breaths were all that shewed that the spirit was still there.
'He shall swallow up death in victory, and the Lord God shall wipe away
tears from all eyes.'
One moment, and the blue eyes they knew so well were opened and smiling
on his mother, and then--
It was over; and through affliction and pain, the young spirit had gone
to rest!
The funeral day was a very sore one to Paul Blackthorn. He would have
given the world to be there, and have heard the beautiful words of hope
which received his friend to his resting-place, but he could not get so
far. He had tried to carry a message to a house not half so far off as
the church, but his knees seemed to give way under him, and his legs
ached so much that he could hardly get home. Somehow, a black suit, just
such as Harold's, had come home for him at the same time; but this could
not hinder him from feeling that he was but a stranger, and one who had
no real place in the home where he lived. There was the house full of
people, who would only make their remarks on him--Miss Hardman (who was
very critical of the coffin-plate), the school-master, and some of the
upper-servants of the house--and poor Mrs. King and Matilda, who could
not help being gratified at the attention to their darling, were obliged
to go down and be civil to them; while Ellen, less used to restraint, was
shut into her own room crying; and Harold was standing on the stairs,
very red, but a good deal engaged with his long hat-band. Poor Paul! he
had not even his usual refuge--his own bed to lie upon and hide his
face--for that had been taken away to make room for the coffin to be
carried down.
There, they were going at last, when it had seemed as if the bustle and
confusion would never cease. There was Alfred leaving the door where he
had so often played, carried upon the shoulders of six lads in white
frocks, his old school-fellows and Paul's Confirmation friends. How Paul
envied them for doing him that last service! There was his mother,
always patient and composed, holding Harold's arm--Harold, who must be
her stay and help, but looking so slight, so boyish, and so young, then
the two girls, Ellen so overpowered with crying that her sister had to
lead her; Mrs. Crabbe with Betsey Hardman, who held up a great white
handkerchief, for other people's visible grief always upset her, as she
said; and besides, she felt it a duty to cry at such a time; and the rest
two and two, quite a train, in their black suits: how unlike the dreary
pauper funerals Paul had watched away at Upperscote! That respectable
look seemed to make him further off and more desolate, like one cut off,
whom no one would follow, no one would weep for. Alfred, who had called
him a brother, was gone, and here he was alone!
The others were taking their dear one once more to the church where they
had so often prayed that he might have a happy issue out of all his
afflictions.
They were met by Mr. Cope, ending his loving intercourse with Alfred by
reading out the blessed promise of Resurrection--the assurance that the
body they were sowing in weakness would be raised in power; so that the
noble boy, whom they had seen fade away like a drooping flower, would
rise again blossoming forth in glory, after the Image of the
Incorruptible--that Image, thought Mr. Cope, as he read on, which he
faithfully strove to copy even through the sufferings due to the
corruptible. His voice often shook and faltered. He had never before
read that Service; and perhaps, except for those of his own kin, it could
never be a greater effort to him, going along with Alfred as he had done,
holding up the rod and staff that bore him through the dark valley. And
each trembling of his tone seemed to answer something that the mother was
feeling in her peaceful, hopeful, thankful grief--yes, thankful that she
could lay her once high-spirited and thoughtless boy in his grave, with
the same sure and certain hope of a joyful Resurrection, as that ripe and
earnest-minded Christian his father, or his little innocent brother. It
was peace--awful peace, indeed, but soothing even to Ellen and Harold,
new as they were to grief.
But to poor Paul at home, out of hearing of the words of hope, only
listening to the melancholy toll of the knell, and quite alone in the
disarranged forlorn house, there seemed nothing to take off the edge of
misery. He was not wanted to keep Alfred company now, nor to read to
him--no one needed him, no one cared for him. He wandered up to where
Alfred had lain so long, as if to look for the pale quiet face that used
to smile to him. There was nothing but the bed-frame and mattress! He
threw himself down on it and cried. He did not well know why--perhaps
the chief feeling was that Alfred was gone away to rest and bliss, and he
was left alone to be weary and without a friend.
At last the crying began to spend itself, and he turned and looked up.
There was Alfred's little picture of the Crucified still on the wall, and
the words under it, 'For us!' Paul's eye fell on it; and somehow it
brought to mind what Alfred had said to him on Christmas Day. There was
One Who had no home on earth; there was One Who had made Himself an
outcast and a wanderer, and Who had not where to lay His Head. Was not
He touched with a fellow-feeling for the lonely boy? Would He not help
him to bear his friendless lot as a share of His own Cross? Nay, had He
not raised him up friends already in his utmost need? 'There is a Friend
Who sticketh closer than a brother.' He was the Friend that Paul need
never lose, and in Whom he could still meet his dear Alfred. These
thoughts, not quite formed, but something like them, came gently as balm
to the poor boy, and though they brought tears even thicker than the
first burst of lonely sorrow, they were as peaceful as those shed beside
the grave. Though Paul was absent in the body, this was a very different
shutting out from Harold's on last Tuesday.
Paul must have cried himself to sleep, for he did not hear the funeral-
party return, and was first roused by Mrs. King coming up-stairs. He had
been so much used to think of this as Alfred's room, that he had never
recollected that it was hers; and now that she was come up for a moment's
breathing-time, he started up ashamed and shocked at being so caught.
But good motherly Mrs. King saw it all, and how he had been weeping where
her child had so long rested. Indeed, his face was swelled with crying,
and his voice all unsteady.
'Poor lad! poor lad!' she said kindly, 'you were as fond of him as any of
them; and if we wanted anything else to make you one of us, that would do
it.'
'O Mother,' said Paul, as she kindly put her hand on him, 'I could not
bear it--I was so lost--till I looked at _that_,' pointing to the little
print.
'Ay,' said Mrs. King, as she wiped her quiet tears, 'that Cross was
Alfred's great comfort, and so it is to us all, my boy, whatever way we
have to carry it, till we come to where he is gone. No cross, no crown,
they say.'
Perhaps it was not bad for any one that this forlorn day had given Paul a
fresh chill, which kept him in bed for nearly a week, so as gently to
break the change from her life of nursing to Mrs. King, and make him very
happy and peaceful in her care.
And when at last on a warm sunny Sunday, Paul Blackthorn returned thanks
in church for his recovery--ay, and for a great deal besides--he had no
reason to think that he was a stranger cared for by no one.