Sir Richard, before the last engagement, in which he lost his life, called at Allenwater.—"How is your master?" he said, in a hurried manner. "He is ill," said James Collingwood. "He will rise from his bed no more." Sir Richard pressed forward; and trembling exceedingly, entered Lord Avondale's room.—"Who weeps so sadly by a dying father's bed?" "It is Harry Mowbrey, Calantha's child, the little comforter of many a dreary hour. The apt remark of enquiring youth, the joyous laugh of childhood, have ceased. The lesson repeated daily to an anxious parent has been learned with more than accustomed assiduity: but in vain. Nature at last has given way:—the pale emaciated form—the hand which the damps of death have chilled, feebly caresses the weeping boy."
James Collingwood stood by his master's side, his sorrowful countenance
