CHAPTER XI.

Asleep.

[Illustration]

I SHALL ever remember that evening: what followed impressed it so deeply on my mind.

Percival seemed unconscious of any one's presence; his lips softly repeated the last word forgiven, and I thought that he smiled.

A brief prayer closed our meeting that night: I now doubt whether Percival heard it.

My aunt, seeing that the invalid was unusually drowsy, hastened the preparation for his nightly rest.

In the morning. I went to Percival's room early, to bid him good-bye ere I started for college. I knocked at his door: there was no reply. I knocked again: still silence within. I opened the door softly; and entering, approached his bed.

My first glance at the countenance, so white—so still—so beautiful, told me that the spirit had fled.

"For death had come in the land of sleep; And his lifeless body lay Like a worn-out fetter, which the soul Had broken and cast away!"

We had anticipated for Percival a long, slow, painful descent to the river of death: but some chord had given way within; he was free, and had cleared the river at a bound. I could not have laid a detaining hand on the freed and rejoicing spirit!

Nothing is now left, in this world, of Henry Percival—but a modest tomb, a fragrant memory, and his little gallery of pictures.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

LONDON: MORGAN & SCOTT, 12, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS.

[Illustration]