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 . 7, 1861.] of this, but when there was a distant rumble of wheels, he would start and faintly point to the window. To the window went mother and daughter, and they gazed on the bend of the white dusty road blurred to their vision by their tearful eyes, praying that it might be the fly bringing Charles from the railway—but time after time, amid clouds of dust, came tilted carts with market folks from Salisbury, or brisk driven farmers’ gigs.

The clergyman was much distressed at the dying man’s state of mind. He led Mrs. Westby aside, and whispered something of evident importance in her ear, and in reply to her hesitation he urged her—

“Ask him if he is now prepared,—we must lose no precious time.”

Mrs. Westby did as she was bidden, the Rector slightly inclined his head, and murmured the word “Charles.”

Mrs. Westby told the clergyman that her husband only waited his son’s arrival.

“This delay is very sad,” said the clergyman, “his time is so short.”

A message was brought to the room that some one who had wronged the Rector had sent to crave his forgiveness.

“Ay,” said the clergyman, “at a period like this it is very meet that we should forgive all wrongs done to us. Pray explain it to him—Farmer Jones asks pardon for his conduct at the Church-rate meeting.”

Mrs. Westby went to the bedside and repeated Farmer Jones’s message.

“Mary,” murmured the dying man. She took his hand in hers. “Mary,” he repeated, and his daughter came close beside him. Their hands were clasped together. The Rector made an effort to raise himself—there was a glow of joy in his countenance, exultation in his weak voice.

“Mary, he will repent—I know it—know it—God has heard my prayer—I’m very happy—my boy—my boy.”

The hands held by his wife and child gradually lost their grasp. And then an hour’s insensibility, and the end.

When Charles Westby reached home he saw by the face of the servant that it was all over. “Missus is with Miss Westby in her room, sir,” said the girl. He would not let them be disturbed, but went directly to his father’s room.

No affectionate greeting, no good counsel in kindly words, no more friendly admonition—a sweet smile on a placid face, and silence—that was all. Father and son were alone for a long time.

The clergyman, full of zeal, tried to comfort the women. He read some short passages from the Psalms and New Testament, very aptly chosen, and he wisely refrained from adding any words of his own, having ascertained by experience that at such periods God’s own consolation was far better than any poor comfort which he could afford.

And then he thought it was a good time to speak to the young man. “He has been very thoughtless hitherto, far from correct in his conduct; I may, by God’s blessing, make some impression on him.”

So he joined himself to Charles Westby, who was pacing the gravel walk by the house.

It was drawing on to night—a flush of sunset, dying into palest tinge of green, lingered beyond the dark outline of distant fir plantation which belted the downs to the west—darkness was slowly rising from the east and lighting the stars.

Charles Westby thanked the clergyman for his kind interest, but particularly desired to be alone; and consequently the clergyman, who was stored with pious admonitions, had to retire, not a little chagrined at the loss of so golden an opportunity of converting a soul. His regrets were needless—the turning point of life is from within. You may talk very eloquently, very wisely, you may press your words home—but repentance is deeper than conviction, and it is not until the man’s own conscience speaks to his soul that the hour of repentance comes. “I will arise and go to my Father.” Charles Westby’s repentance had been already consummated in that hour’s communion with the dead.

He wished to be alone—he could not share his feelings with either mother or sister; they had sorrow—he had sorrow and remorse. The last was very stinging: “You have wasted your father’s slender substance,—your mother and sister will suffer for this; they won’t reproach you, but silence will be worse than words.” He needed some anodyne to sooth the pangs he suffered. There was one—reparation. Ah, how he longed to be at work, even at that moment, repairing the past; it was a relief to revolve plans for the future. His college life had ended—no more funds to support him there; something in London. What? And he paced up and down the gravel-path, many a time, with “what?” unsolved.

In the intensity of these thoughts his past life seemed to fade years back—his college hopes and plans—even the aquatic triumph, but a few hours old, and he was still dressed in his rowing-garb, had lost the excitement of recent action. There was great lassitude in his frame, the result of that intense physical effort; yet with sorrow and remorse close at his heart sleep was impossible; and, worn as he was, that pacing to and fro, in the cool night air, was a relief.

Charles Westby went to London—a few lines will tell the struggle of eight years—he got hard work and little payment, as a great favour, in a solicitor’s office; he ate his “terms,” supported himself, and sent something home out of his pittance. Then he gave up the solicitor’s office and obtained some parliamentary reporting in the evening, which enabled him to pursue his law-reading by day.

It was a vast change at first from physical to mental effort—the muscles which had been developed by the use of the oar had to be attenuated by the use of the pen. But he had put his hand to the plough—there was no looking back on old habits and pleasures. Happily no temptation to do so, because remorse stood watch