mother; I will never lay down my head on a pillow again till I have been to Eustace."

"My dear boy," said Mrs. Beaumont, beginning now to look rather serious, "what do you mean ?"

"My mother and my father," said Raymond, "I mean this, that boy Eustace is innocent and pure as the snow. The charge of stealing the ring is a real, black, and devilish lie. Stapleton has confessed to me that it was his fabrication, and my uncle died in utter ignorance and deception. Stapleton stole the ring, and Stapleton pawned it."

Mr. Beaumont turned pale, and sat down.

"Well," said Mrs. Beaumont, "if Stapleton turns out a scoundrel that does not alter your claim to the fortune." "No," said Raymond, and he could hardly suppress a smile of contempt,-" all that fortune is mine, and as for him-that boy has not a farthing. Happily he doesn't want it; he has what I shall never get. Oh, mother, why did you never tell me of my Inheritance,-a place near the throne on high? But look here, I must, will see Eustace before he dies."

"Absolute folly," said Mrs. Beaumont, "he is down at Bournemouth; he may be dead, for aught I know, by this time. You can see him in a day or two. It will be madness, my dear child, after a long journey, to attempt another as long as that. No, no; put all such morbid fancies away; you have acted nobly. If your uncle has been deceived by that most agreeable, although fallible youth, Stapleton, it is no fault of yours, rest quiet."

"My mother, I must go," said Raymond, who had yet taken off his cloak, "I must go, and I will. er-"

Beaumont turned to him, "I think, Raymond, you her excited to-night."

“No, indeed I am not. I must go immediately to see Eustace." And Mr. Beaumont, in some hesitation at the sudden resolve, left the room.

Raymond followed him, and revealed to him the story at length. There was no longer any delay. Raymond left his home with his father nearly as soon as he had reached it, and was off to catch the night train, on his way to Bournemouth.

sea.

It was a fine night. The stars shone bright over the The moon shone on the fir-trees, and that little girdle of green shrubs which fringe the sheltered churchyard, where graves are tended with a mourner's love, and the care of those who think much of the holy departed. The moon shone through a window of a lodging-house which looked out upon the broad deep.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE VESSEL ENTERING THE LIGHT.

THE window was open, and the light shone straight on the white counterpane, where Eustace lay restlessly. "Dear mother," said he, "thank you; I am able to breathe now, for I could not until you opened the window; my breath gets so short."

A boat was again passing along through the bands of light.

"Mother," said he, "so may we all pass through the trials and temptations of this world into everlasting light and peace."

She sat in the chair near the bed, and kept her eye

upon the boat. It came into the centre of the beam of moonlight. "So may my dear child pass out of the probation and the sorrow of this life into the perfect peace which awaiteth the people of GOD," thought she. In a few minutes Eustace was somewhat revived.

"Mother," said he, "where is the boat? I don't see the white sail."

"It is gone, Eustace," said she.

"Oh, mother, mother, has it gone into the darkness again? Just now I saw it go out of the darkness into the light. Ah, I know I must go through much more pain before I can come to that blessed light where there is no night."

She left the window open, and the moon continued shining on his calm pale face. It appeared more than usually beautiful that evening. There was an expression, which is often given at such a time, through which the inward mind and soul seem to look out the more brightly as the power of the frail body is growing less and less. It is in dying sometimes that the soul of the faithful one seems gifted with a force of prophecy.

"Mother," said Eustace, "I shall not be here long now. It does not matter much with regard to the will, and it is only for your sake that I care at all. If Raymond has got it all I will pray that he may use it well. But oh, mother, what will you do? that is my only trouble now. For myself, the fortunes of earth are nothing. If I had hundreds and thousands of pounds, it would be as nothing to me at this moment."

Mrs. Sherwood was kneeling by the bedside.

"The blessed hope, dear mother, that I shall soon be with Him, whom I have tried to love!"

"Oh, Eustace! How can I bear you to leave me? What shall I do without you, my only child; the sup

port of my widowhood, the one prop and stay of my declining age."

"Nay, nay, do not talk so. If I leave you, I only go to that Home where we wait for the everlasting day, when we may inhabit the palace of the Great King. The only thing I fear is lest you should suffer during the time that you wait God's good pleasure in this world."

During the last few minutes Evelyn Noel had entered the room silently, and sat down on the other side of the bed, and now gently drew aside the curtain. The light fell upon his face. Evelyn let the curtain drop, but not soon enough to prevent Eustace seeing him.

"Evelyn," said Eustace, "is that you ?"

"Yes, Eustace," said Evelyn, "I am here; and I am glad that I am here to assure you of this one thing, that your mother shall never want during her lifetime."

"But, Evelyn," said Eustace, "it still seems hard to die. I can't get my breath. Mother, open the window wider; open the door, and let in a thorough draught. Cannot you give me another pillow ?"

"My dear child," said Mrs. Sherwood, "you have three."

"Oh, I can't breathe; give me more. Evelyn, put your hand under my back, it is so sore. Oh, that is so comfortable. Yes, bow lovely it all looks. Evelyn, will you kneel down and pray? You know I have longed that I might be kept united to our Blessed LORD. He was weak, Evelyn, was He not, when He died, so that He could not carry His Cross alone ?"

"Yes," said Evelyn, "Simon of Cyrene bore it with. Him."

"Oh, Evelyn," said Eustace," that is so consoling; and He will be close by me. For whom have I in

heaven but Him, and whom upon earth could I desire in comparison of Him ?' ”

“I know,” said Evelyn, " He is with you in your weakness, in your thirst, in your longing to be His for ever. He understands it all, He knows it all. He is close by you."

"Mother," said Eustace, turning his head round towards her, "do not cry. How can I bear this agony ?" Presently he was easier. No one spoke; there is a singular awe at the nearness of death. We do not speak, when GOD is speaking to the soul. His mother's hand held his fast as it lay outside the sheet, damp, but cold, and Evelyn had made for himself a place upon the bed, on its further side, where he was able to support with his arm the body of his friend. The night wore on. For ten minutes, now and then, Eustace slept or dozed. At intervals he spoke to them.

"I am coming out of the dark waters of temptation. I remember that little ship-it did pass through to the moonlight. Oh, Evelyn, you were not here to see that little vessel, it was very lovely; 'Out of darkness into light.'

"Yes," said Evelyn. "But rest, Eustace; talking is too much for you."

“Then,” continued the dying boy, “it came out of the light into what seemed darkness again. May no pains of death divide my soul from Thee.'”

Eustace's eyes again closed, and but for the heaving of his bosom, it would have been difficult to know whether the warfare were not already accomplished and the voyage over-the bird delivered from the snare, its prison-bars broken. Morning was approaching; a soft breeze sprang up from the sea. The light plunges of the little waves were the only music-and what music is like nature's music?-In that silent room each fold of the wedding