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Eight leaden weeks wore themselves out at last, and I helped to carry him on a litter up to St. Stephen's, and lay him in Bishop Carter's room, exhausted but cheerful and patient, and only sorry to give us so much trouble. Trouble! The trouble was to see him lying helpless there: our life, our earthly all, passing away.

Why had I not given myself more trouble to take care of him before it was too late?

I don't know exactly what was the matter with him. I think he had burst some blood-vessel. But I never knew him to be so gentle and so cheerful as he was then: too gentle too good

-too heavenly—for this earth. How I longed for a little of his old irritableness! How I could have enjoyed a good scolding! But it was like the cruel calms at sea.

After a while he revived my hopes by being able to get up and walk about, but with great difficulty. He had to sit down on a box, which I put for him, in walking from the Bishop's room into the Dining Hall.

He used to say it was worth while to be ill to be taken such care of. To walk up to Mr. Selby's was a great undertaking, which he used to accomplish leaning on my arm, and he would pause on the verandah steps to get breath, and to look at the beautiful flowers.

Christmas came; but was saddened by the sight of his wasted body and declining strength, which his unsuccessful efforts at cheerfulness and jollity only made the more painfully clear. The hot weather was against him.

Christmas passed; and then I used always to think that the time ran down hill to the vessel's coming to take us to the Islands. The thought that Percy would be unfit to go to Pombuana had long been in my mind, but was so unpleasant that I kept it down below, and out of hearing as much as possible. It was now time for it to come out in words. Bishop Carter took Arthur and me for one of the dear old Sunday walks, and told us.

T

After a few moments of aching silence, he said that we must decide what to do under these circumstances. One of us must go to look after the school and help him in communicating with the people, and one must stay to be with Mr. Wakefield. It was at length arranged that I should go to Pombuana and that Arthur should stay at Happy Island. We both decided against our inclinations. He wanted to go and see the survivors of his scattered family, and I wished to be with our dear friend; but I could see that the Bishop thought it would be best for me to go to Pombuana as I had more influence there than Arthur. Mr. Wakefield, with or without a sacrifice, it is not for me to say, agreed that this would be for the best.

The summer heat made great inroads upon his strength, and left him in a very helpless state. He could not leave his room. The Aurora came, bringing down a doctor, who, when he saw him, did not look hopeful; and I noticed greater care taken and tenderer love called forth; but no one said anything fresh to us. The next thing we saw was that the sick man rarely left the sofa he had been removed to Mr. Selby's house, and Mrs. Selby was his nurse. Arthur and I were with him by turns at first all day, and afterwards all night as well. There was a settled gloom over everything, and the coming of the Aurora, a season of boisterous good spirits, seemed only to deepen and and widen it. Mr. Selby's eyes were red, as he went about his work in the kitchen and on the farm; and Bishop Carter trembled when he spoke. Those three strong and gentle fellows from England quietly relieved everybody of half his work. It was pleasant to look upon their youth and health and strength in such a sick and dying time.

Our schooling had been interrupted; but we were learning lessons not to be found in books.

Was it a fancy of mine, or was it really so, that Mr. Selby and Bishop Carter were more kind, and gentle, and familiar, and patient, and brotherly towards us lads than usual; as if

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they felt in want of our sympathy; as if one object of their love were perhaps to be removed, and that it was turned more fully towards us, who were still left? The dreaded day came, fixed for the sailing of the Aurora. Strange that I should have to call that day a dreaded day! But so it was—to me.

She was to sail at two o'clock. All was bustle and commotion everywhere, except in the quiet shady sick room. It was so unnatural for him to be the only quiet one-the only one who had nothing to do with what was going on. He used to look after us with such constant care that we were left like sheep without a shepherd.

As I was to go away, I was obliged to be absent from his room most of the morning, doing what I had to do with a strangely dull and heavy heart, instead of running, leaping, laughing, and singing like any mad child. All that I had left, to long for, was given back only to be taken away again.

One of the new arrivals seeing how stupid and blind I was with grief, and what miserable mistakes I was making with my things, and knowing that my mind was not in anything I was doing, came and helped me, like a brother. He told me to go to Mr. Wakefield, and that he would pack up the things, and tie together the loose odds and ends, and put them into the cart for me. Kind, good fellow!

At eleven o'clock, Bishop Carter sent word to us Communicants, to assemble in Mrs. Selby's room. We went in sadly

and noiselessly and with heads bowed down.

There sat he whom I loved best on earth, the shadow of his former self, but cheerful, patient, and full of courage. The active limbs were helpless; the face everywhere seen and loved must now smile sweetly but faintly from that chair.

Mr. Selby beckoned me and Arthur to stand one on each side of him, while the others ranged themselves conveniently round the room.

We were assembled there to "eat of that Bread and drink of that Cup" with him for the last time.

When we rose from our knees, we had to say good-bye to Percy, and then walk down to the vessel. Presently he and Arthur and I were alone together. Time was short, and what we had to say must be said quickly.

"Good-bye, my father, Percy," said I, "will you come next voyage? What will Valé and Malagai do without you? And your work that you have begun, you must get well and come and finish it."

"Good-bye, my own dear, dear boy. God has taught me at last to say 'not my will but Thine be done.' There was a time when I could have wished it to be otherwise, but now I can say from my heart-it is all for the best. You must learn to say so too. It is God's work not mine. Perhaps I was standing in His way, hindering His work, by attracting people's attention to myself instead of directing them to Him. You and Arthur will carry on the work if you really wish it to go on. But perhaps next year I may be sufficiently well to go down for a short time. I was nearly as bad as this before and got over it. However, God will do as He thinks best. Kiss me, Percy, and go! Arthur, you had better walk down with him. I can get on all right till you come back. God bless both for your wonderful affection and kindness. Good-bye, Percy; you and I cannot be separated-not even by death."

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Arthur led me to the door, where Mrs. Selby and Noni bade me good-bye, and gave me a parcel of clothes, but I was like one walking in his sleep. Arthur looked after me, for I was not able to take care of myself, nor have I any remembrance whatever of the walk across to the Gap, off which the Aurora lay.

The hurry and bustle of our departure prevented me and Arthur from feeling our good-bye as much as we might otherwise have done.

It was not until next day that I awoke from my dull dreamy state to realize what had happened. That thin pale face, so dear, so familiar, so inseparable from my life, was ever present, always looking lovingly upon me, smiling bravely as it went down to the grave, like the face of a statue of Victory having Death under its foot.

So with a sinking heart and failing of courage did I turn towards my home.

CHAPTER LVI.

ABSENCE.

In the midst of my dreaming the thought "His work; what are you doing for that?" would suddenly start me to my feet, and turn me hot with shame at having let those precious moments pass unemployed. Then I would rush off and get my books and study or translate, or go and teach some of the younger boys in a restless, feverish kind of way. But Bishop Carter was at hand to cool and quiet me by his most wise and common sense advice and example, reducing my extravagance and irregularity to proportion and order. Sometimes he seemed almost to lack feeling, but never was there a more tender, sensitive man, except Percy; only Percy had not his surprising coolness, judgment, and self-control, his rock-like plainness and steadfastness.

He stayed a few days with me at Tanasémbé; but the one universal cry was for "Waykayfeeloo."

The Aurora took away the Bishop, returned to Happy Island, and left me alone. I was indeed back in my old home, but only to find it an empty hopeless solitude. I was miserably down-hearted, and faithless to a most blame-worthy degree; but I had Curwen Kiukilu's precious example before me, whom I