again with his uncle prepared for the journey.

"Good-bye, Dr. Seaward," he said as he left the house.

"God bless you, my young friend," said the kind-hearted Doctor; "and
grant that you may find His providence better than your fears."

George thought he had never known the train go so slowly as it did
during that long, wearisome journey to London. At last it arrived at
the terminus, and then, jumping into a cab, they were hurried away
towards Stamford Hill as quickly as the horse could travel.

"Now, George," said Mr. Brunton, as they came near their journey's end,
"we know not what may have happened while we have been coming here. Be a
man, and recollect there is one who suffers more than you."

"Do not fear, uncle. I will not add to my mother's grief," was all he
could reply.

We will not pry into that interview between mother and son when they
first met; there is a grief too solemn for a stranger's eye.

Mr. Weston was still alive, and that was all that could be said. The
doctors had pronounced his case beyond human skill, and had intimated
that there were but a few hours for him on earth.

As George stood beside the bed of his dying father, the tears which had
been long pent up came pouring thick and fast down his cheek.

"Don't give way to sorrow, George," said his father, in a low voice, for