Chapter 58 - Page 2

of her admiration.
There was the old house too, which they would pass every day,
looking up at the tiny window through which the sun used to stream
in and wake him on the summer mornings--they were all summer
mornings then--and climbing up the garden-wall and looking over,
Nicholas could see the very rose-bush which had come, a present to
Kate, from some little lover, and she had planted with her own
hands. There were the hedgerows where the brother and sister had so
often gathered wild flowers together, and the green fields and shady
paths where they had so often strayed. There was not a lane, or
brook, or copse, or cottage near, with which some childish event was
not entwined, and back it came upon the mind--as events of childhood
do--nothing in itself: perhaps a word, a laugh, a look, some slight
distress, a passing thought or fear: and yet more strongly and
distinctly marked, and better remembered, than the hardest trials or
severest sorrows of a year ago.

One of these expeditions led them through the churchyard where was
his father's grave. 'Even here,' said Nicholas softly, 'we used to
loiter before we knew what death was, and when we little thought
whose ashes would rest beneath; and, wondering at the silence, sit
down to rest and speak below our breath. Once, Kate was lost, and
after an hour of fruitless search, they found her, fast asleep,
under that tree which shades my father's grave. He was very fond of
her, and said when he took her up in his arms, still sleeping, that
whenever he died he would wish to be buried where his dear little
child had laid her head. You see his wish was not forgotten.'

Nothing more passed at the time, but that night, as Nicholas sat
beside his bed, Smike started from what had seemed to be a slumber,
and laying his hand in his, prayed, as the tears coursed down his
face, that he would make him one solemn promise.

'What is that?' said Nicholas, kindly. 'If I can redeem it, or hope
to do so, you know I will.'

'I am sure you will,' was the reply. 'Promise me that when I die, I
shall be buried near--as near as they can make my grave--to the tree
we saw today.'

Nicholas gave the promise; he had few words to give it in, but they
were solemn and earnest. His poor friend kept his hand in his, and
turned as if to sleep. But there were stifled sobs; and the hand
was pressed more than once, or twice, or thrice, before he sank to
rest, and slowly loosed his hold.

In a fortnight's time, he became too ill to move about. Once or
twice, Nicholas drove him out, propped up with pillows; but the
motion of the chaise was painful to him, and brought on fits of
fainting, which, in his weakened state, were dangerous. There was
an old couch