"And one thing more, dear Alfred; you think me a strange penitent, that
I am long, very long, before I make my confession. You do not know how I
sigh for Communion; it is three years since I communicated, nearly four.
But, Alfred, there is one who tried to stop me when I began going
downward, downward, and I feel as if I must have his forgiveness before
I can communicate, and it is to him I want to make my last confession.
You know whom I mean; he is in England now and near."

"I do indeed."

"Now you know my secret, let us go into church."

Oh, how sweetly those Easter psalms and lessons spoke to Alfred and
Elfric that night; how sweetly the tidings of a risen Saviour sounded in
their ears. Easter joy was joy indeed. The very heavens seemed brighter
that night, the moon--the Paschal moon--seemed to gladden the earth
and render it a Paradise, like that happy Eden of old times, before sin
entered its holy seclusion.

Easter tide was over, and Ascension drew near, but the sweet month of
May had done little to restore health to poor Elfric. He had scarcely
ever had a day free from pain. His eye was brighter than ever, but his
attenuated face told a sad tale of the decay of the vital power.

From the time that Alfred knew how his brother yearned for Dunstan's
forgiveness, and that he would be shriven by none but him, he had sought
to accomplish his wish. He heard that Dunstan had returned from abroad,
and was about to be consecrated Bishop of Worcester, and to be their own
diocesan, and he sought an early opportunity of seeing him.