“For the satisfaction of you all I can do so,” he replied; “but it will not benefit me.” “Good heavens! what a dreadful thing,” uttered George, with feeling; “what a blow to fall upon you.” “You would regard it so were it to fall upon you, and naturally you are young, joyous, and have something to live for.” George Taylor did not feel joyous then, had not felt particularly joyous for a long time; some how his own care was a burden to him; he lifted his right hand to his temple and kept it there; Charles suffered his own hand to fall upon George’s left, which rested on his knee. “Don’t grieve, George, I am more than resigned. I think of it as a happy change; this world at its best is full of care; if we seem free from it one year it only falls more unsparingly the next; it is wisely ordered, were the world made too pleasant for us, we might be wishing it was our permanent home; few weary of it, whatever may be their care, until they have learned to look for a better. In the days gone by, I have felt tempted to wonder why Janey should have been taken,” resumed Charles. “I see now how merciful the fiat was, George. I have been more thoughtfully observant perhaps, than many are, and I have learned to see, to know, how marvelously all the fiats are fraught with mercy; full of dark sorrows as they may seem to us, it would have been a bitter trial to me to leave her here unprotected in deep sorrow. I scarcely think I could have been reconciled to go, and I know what her grief would have been. All’s for the best.” Very rare was it for undemonstrative Charles thus to express his hidden sentiments. George never knew him to do so before; the time and place were peculiarly fitted for it, the still, bright night, telling of peacefulness, the shady trees around, the blue sky overhead; in these paroxysms of pain Charles felt himself brought face to face with death. “It will be a blow to Mary,” said George, the thought striking him. “She will feel it as one. Charles, can nothing be done for you?” was the impulsive rejoinder. “Could it have been done for my mother?” “I know, but since then science has been broadened; diseases once incurable yield now to medical skill. I wish you would go to London. There are some diseases which bring death with them in spite of human skill, which will bring it to the end of time,” rejoined Charles. “This is one.” “Well, Charles, you have given me enough for to-night, and for a great many more nights and days, too. I wish I had not heard it; it is a dreadful affliction for you. I must say it is a dreadful affliction.” “The disease or the ending you mean?” asked Charles, with a smile. “Both are, but I spoke more particularly of the disease. The disease in itself is a lingering death, and nothing better.” “A lingering death is the most favored, as I regard it; a sudden death the most unhappy one. See what time has given me to set my house in order,” he added, the sober smile deepening. “I must not fail to do it well.” “And the pain, Charles, that will be lingering, too.” “I must bear it.” He rose as he spoke, and put his arm in his cousin’s. He stood a minute or two as if getting strength, and then walked on, leaning heavily on George. It was the pain, the excessive agony, that unnerved him; a little while, and he would seem in the possession of his strength again. “George, I can not tell how you will manage the business when I am gone,” he continued, more in a business-like tone. “I think of it a great deal. Sometimes I fancy it might be better if you took a staid, sober partner, one of middle age, a thorough man of business. Great confidence has been accorded me, you know, George. I suppose people like my steady habits.”