I touched Charlie on the shoulder. He dropped upon his knees and, unprompted, joined his trembling hands in prayer. His gaze was directed upward. His countenance assumed a look of intensity I had never seen on it before. Quite suddenly he rose, and flinging himself sobbing across the bed, “Oh, mother, mother! Do not leave me all alone,” he cried.
“See! Your son is saved!” I whispered, bending over Mrs. Wilton. But I was speaking to the dead.
And yet, even as I looked upon the still white face, the lips seemed parting into a smile of the most holy, calm, ineffable content. Could it be as she herself had said? Was she already kneeling before the great white throne—had God listened to her prayer at last?
A few more words and this “o’er true tale” is ended.
From the moment of his mother’s death, the mists that had obscured poor Charlie’s mind dispersed.
I took him to live with me, and watched his young intelligence grow day by day to healthy vigour. Not even a shadowy semblance of a cloud rests now upon his mind. He has succeeded to his grandfather’s wealth as well as to the title, for “the niece’s child” is dead.
The present Lord Welbury ranks amongst England’s noblest sons—he is one of the greatest philanthropists of the day.
E. M. Davy.