Dividing the distance into two days' journey, in order that his chargemight sustain the less exhaustion and fatigue from travelling so far,Nicholas, at the end of the second day from their leaving home, foundhimself within a very few miles of the spot where the happiest yearsof his life had been passed, and which, while it filled his mind withpleasant and peaceful thoughts, brought back many painful and vividrecollections of the circumstances in which he and his had wanderedforth from their old home, cast upon the rough world and the mercy ofstrangers.

It needed no such reflections as those which the memory of old days,and wanderings among scenes where our childhood has been passed, usuallyawaken in the most insensible minds, to soften the heart of Nicholas,and render him more than usually mindful of his drooping friend. Bynight and day, at all times and seasons: always watchful, attentive, andsolicitous, and never varying in the discharge of his self-imposed dutyto one so friendless and helpless as he whose sands of life were nowfast running out and dwindling rapidly away: he was ever at his side. Henever left him. To encourage and animate him, administer to his wants,support and cheer him to the utmost of his power, was now his constantand unceasing occupation.

They procured a humble lodging in a small farmhouse, surrounded bymeadows where Nicholas had often revelled when a child with a troop ofmerry schoolfellows; and here they took up their rest.

At first, Smike was strong enough to walk about, for short distancesat a time, with no other support or aid than that which Nicholas couldafford him. At this time, nothing appeared to interest him so much asvisiting those places which had been most familiar to his friend inbygone days. Yielding to this fancy, and pleased to find that itsindulgence beguiled the sick boy of many tedious hours, and never failedto afford him matter for thought and conversation afterwards, Nicholasmade such spots the scenes of their daily rambles: driving him fromplace to place in a little pony-chair, and supporting him on his armwhile they walked slowly among these old haunts, or lingered in thesunlight to take long parting looks of those which were most quiet andbeautiful.

It was on such occasions as these, that Nicholas, yielding almostunconsciously to the interest of old associations, would point out sometree that he had climbed, a hundred times, to peep at the young birds intheir nest; and the branch from which he used to shout to little Kate,who stood below terrified at the height he had gained, and yet urginghim higher still by the intensity of her admiration. There was theold house too, which they would pass every day, looking up at the tinywindow through which the sun used to stream in and wake him on thesummer mornings--they were all summer mornings then--and climbing upthe garden-wall and looking over, Nicholas could see the very rose-bushwhich had come, a present to Kate, from some little lover, and she hadplanted with her own hands. There were the hedgerows where the brotherand sister had so often gathered wild flowers together, and the greenfields and shady paths where they had so often strayed. There was nota lane, or brook, or copse, or cottage near, with which some childishevent was not entwined, and back it came upon the mind--as events ofchildhood do--nothing in itself: perhaps a word, a laugh, a look, someslight distress, a passing thought or fear: and yet more strongly anddistinctly marked, and better remembered, than the hardest trials orseverest sorrows of a year ago.

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

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

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

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

Nicholas gave the promise; he had few words to give it in, but they weresolemn and earnest. His poor friend kept his hand in his, and turned asif to sleep. But there were stifled sobs; and the hand was pressedmore than once, or twice, or thrice, before he sank to rest, and slowlyloosed 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 thechaise was painful to him, and brought on fits of fainting, which, inhis weakened state, were dangerous. There was an old couch in the house,which was his favourite resting-place by day; and when the sun shone,and the weather was warm, Nicholas had this wheeled into a littleorchard which was close at hand, and his charge being well wrappedup and carried out to it, they used to sit there sometimes for hourstogether.

It was on one of these occasions that a circumstance took place, whichNicholas, at the time, thoroughly believed to be the mere delusion of animagination affected by disease; but which he had, afterwards, too goodreason to know was of real and actual occurrence.

He had brought Smike out in his arms--poor fellow! a child might havecarried him then--to see the sunset, and, having arranged his couch, hadtaken his seat beside it. He had been watching the whole of the nightbefore, and being greatly fatigued both in mind and body, gradually fellasleep.

He could not have closed his eyes five minutes, when he was awakened bya scream, and starting up in that kind of terror which affects a personsuddenly roused, saw, to his great astonishment, that his charge hadstruggled into a sitting posture, and with eyes almost starting fromtheir sockets, cold dew standing on his forehead, and in a fit oftrembling which quite convulsed his frame, was calling to him for help.

'Good Heaven, what is this?' said Nicholas, bending over him. 'Be calm;you have been dreaming.'

'No, no, no!' cried Smike, clinging to him. 'Hold me tight. Don't let mego. There, there. Behind the tree!'

Nicholas followed his eyes, which were directed to some distance behindthe chair from which he himself had just risen. But, there was nothingthere.

'This is nothing but your fancy,' he said, as he strove to compose him;'nothing else, indeed.'

'I know better. I saw as plain as I see now,' was the answer. 'Oh! sayyou'll keep me with you. Swear you won't leave me for an instant!'

'Do I ever leave you?' returned Nicholas. 'Lie down again--there! Yousee I'm here. Now, tell me; what was it?'

'Do you remember,' said Smike, in a low voice, and glancing fearfullyround, 'do you remember my telling you of the man who first took me tothe school?'

'Yes, surely.'

'I raised my eyes, just now, towards that tree--that one with the thicktrunk--and there, with his eyes fixed on me, he stood!'

'Only reflect for one moment,' said Nicholas; 'granting, for an instant,that it's likely he is alive and wandering about a lonely place likethis, so far removed from the public road, do you think that at thisdistance of time you could possibly know that man again?'

'Anywhere--in any dress,' returned Smike; 'but, just now, he stoodleaning upon his stick and looking at me, exactly as I told you Iremembered him. He was dusty with walking, and poorly dressed--I thinkhis clothes were ragged--but directly I saw him, the wet night, his facewhen he left me, the parlour I was left in, and the people that werethere, all seemed to come back together. When he knew I saw him, helooked frightened; for he started, and shrunk away. I have thought ofhim by day, and dreamt of him by night. He looked in my sleep, when Iwas quite a little child, and has looked in my sleep ever since, as hedid just now.'

Nicholas endeavoured, by every persuasion and argument he could thinkof, to convince the terrified creature that his imagination had deceivedhim, and that this close resemblance between the creation of his dreamsand the man he supposed he had seen was but a proof of it; but all invain. When he could persuade him to remain, for a few moments, in thecare of the people to whom the house belonged, he instituted a strictinquiry whether any stranger had been seen, and searched himselfbehind the tree, and through the orchard, and upon the land immediatelyadjoining, and in every place near, where it was possible for a manto lie concealed; but all in vain. Satisfied that he was right in hisoriginal conjecture, he applied himself to calming the fears of Smike,which, after some time, he partially succeeded in doing, though not inremoving the impression upon his mind; for he still declared, again andagain, in the most solemn and fervid manner, that he had positively seenwhat he had described, and that nothing could ever remove his convictionof its reality.

And now, Nicholas began to see that hope was gone, and that, upon thepartner of his poverty, and the sharer of his better fortune, the worldwas closing fast. There was little pain, little uneasiness, but therewas no rallying, no effort, no struggle for life. He was worn and wastedto the last degree; his voice had sunk so low, that he could scarce beheard to speak. Nature was thoroughly exhausted, and he had lain himdown to die.

On a fine, mild autumn day, when all was tranquil and at peace: when thesoft sweet air crept in at the open window of the quiet room, and not asound was heard but the gentle rustling of the leaves: Nicholas sat inhis old place by the bedside, and knew that the time was nearly come.So very still it was, that, every now and then, he bent down his ear tolisten for the breathing of him who lay asleep, as if to assure himselfthat life was still there, and that he had not fallen into that deepslumber from which on earth there is no waking.

While he was thus employed, the closed eyes opened, and on the pale facethere came a placid smile.

'That's well!' said Nicholas. 'The sleep has done you good.'

'I have had such pleasant dreams,' was the answer. 'Such pleasant, happydreams!'

'Of what?' said Nicholas.

The dying boy turned towards him, and, putting his arm about his neck,made answer, 'I shall soon be there!'

After a short silence, he spoke again.

'I am not afraid to die,' he said. 'I am quite contented. I almost thinkthat if I could rise from this bed quite well I would not wish to doso, now. You have so often told me we shall meet again--so very oftenlately, and now I feel the truth of that so strongly--that I can evenbear to part from you.'

The trembling voice and tearful eye, and the closer grasp of thearm which accompanied these latter words, showed how they filled thespeaker's heart; nor were there wanting indications of how deeply theyhad touched the heart of him to whom they were addressed.

'You say well,' returned Nicholas at length, 'and comfort me very much,dear fellow. Let me hear you say you are happy, if you can.'

'I must tell you something, first. I should not have a secret from you.You would not blame me, at a time like this, I know.'

'I blame you!' exclaimed Nicholas.

'I am sure you would not. You asked me why I was so changed, and--andsat so much alone. Shall I tell you why?'

'Not if it pains you,' said Nicholas. 'I only asked that I might makeyou happier, if I could.'

'I know. I felt that, at the time.' He drew his friend closer to him.'You will forgive me; I could not help it, but though I would havedied to make her happy, it broke my heart to see--I know he loves herdearly--Oh! who could find that out so soon as I?'

The words which followed were feebly and faintly uttered, and broken bylong pauses; but, from them, Nicholas learnt, for the first time, thatthe dying boy, with all the ardour of a nature concentrated on oneabsorbing, hopeless, secret passion, loved his sister Kate.

He had procured a lock of her hair, which hung at his breast, foldedin one or two slight ribbons she had worn. He prayed that, when he wasdead, Nicholas would take it off, so that no eyes but his might see it,and that when he was laid in his coffin and about to be placed in theearth, he would hang it round his neck again, that it might rest withhim in the grave.

Upon his knees Nicholas gave him this pledge, and promised again thathe should rest in the spot he had pointed out. They embraced, and kissedeach other on the cheek.

'Now,' he murmured, 'I am happy.'

He fell into a light slumber, and waking smiled as before; then, spokeof beautiful gardens, which he said stretched out before him, and werefilled with figures of men, women, and many children, all with lightupon their faces; then, whispered that it was Eden--and so died.