That yearning, unsatisfied feeling which we call "homesickness" began to prey upon my heart, and I resolved to return to England.
I went back by way of Paris, having settled with the priest that he should write to me at my banker's there as soon as he could after Alfred had returned to Wincot.

If I had gone to the East, the letter would have been forwarded to me.

I wrote to prevent this; and, on my arrival at Paris, stopped at the banker's before I went to my hotel.
The moment the letter was put into my hands, the black border on the envelope told me the worst.

He was dead.
There was but one consolation--he had died calmly, almost happily, without once referring to those fatal chances which had wrought the fulfillment of the ancient prophecy.

"My beloved pupil," the old priest wrote, "seemed to rally a little the first few days after his return, but he gained no real strength, and soon suffered a slight relapse of fever.