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.