interpret the need, the thought, the wish, which once would have spoken from them, and required no voice. Remember how they never moistened, how they wandered, when opening from the sleep that did not refresh; recall them when, while the bright glare was still within them, it shed no light upon the outer world, but shone out of blindness, and then tell the poets and romancers, if they would write truth, they must see consumption, and not imagine it. Tell them to sit throughout the long watches of the night, when the light is subdued, and all the furniture of the room throws grotesque and monstrous shadows on the walls, by the bed which no care can keep smooth; bid them see the haggard face, the clammy eyelids, the chapped lips, with their brownish blood-marked crust, indented by the sharp, brittle teeth; the tumbled hair, wet with sluggish damps; the mark on the pillow, where the sharpened head, so awfully like a skull, has lain as the hours wear on, at a thousand different angles, but all of unrest; bid them watch the head droop further, further yet, (while they dare not disturb the fitful sleep,) until it hangs over the edge of the pillow, with the light touching its outline with pale, gray lines, until the cough comes, and its attendant rattle, and struggle, and strangulation. Tell them to raise that fainting head, and feel its tremulousness, to wipe the cold sweat from the ghastly face; to listen to the palpitation of every startled pulse; to the incoherent murmur, gradually dying into troublous sleep again. Tell them to moisten the lips with water which cannot cool, with wine which cannot refresh; to touch the brow and hands with perfume, which dies before the taint; and to exhaust their ingenuity with vain endeavours to place any limb in a position which is not one of suffering, or to touch the dissolving flesh, and not give it pain. Tell them to change and smooth the pillows twenty times in an hour, to shift the weariness from the shoulders, where the bone cuts the hand trying to ease the weight, without throwing it upon the limbs, unable to bear their own heaviness. Tell them they shall hear no coherent words, but "Is morning near?" "What hour is it?" and bid them give soothing and patient answers. Tell them to do all these things, not once, but a thousand times, and a thousand times to those, and then, if they have language to chronicle such hours, bid them describe consumption.

I cannot help saying this, though it is a digression, because even in the first moment of the conviction that it must come, it almost angered me, that ever any one who had power to sway the minds of men, could so falsify the calamity we had to bear.

I sat where the physician had left me. I reasoned with myself that it was no truer now than it had been yesterday, but I had received confirmation strong of all I dreaded. Then arose the consciousness that time was fiying-I was losing minutes-now they had the value and significance of years. Then a dreary vacuity came into my mind, and I felt nothing but the monotonous pressure of the fiat, against which there was no appeal. I heard Maud and Marguerite moving about her room. I had no strength of will or limb to seek them, and be calm. For the time the effort was quite beyond my strength. As my mind grew clearer, I recognised that

there were two points upon which it was necessary to come to a decision; cne, whether I should speak to her plainly and tell her the truth; the other, whether I should break the awful verity to Maud and Marguerite. I felt very little doubt that she knew all I could tell her, except, perhaps, that she might not be conscious that her end was so near. Ultimately I decided that I would tell her the truth, and consult her wishes upon the other point. It was late in the afternoon when Maud found me in the library; she came in with a pillow and a shawl in her arms. I said, "Is she coming in?" "Yes," said Maud, in rather a surprised tone, "why? do you think she is worse?" There was a quick alarm in her voice and in her face, which revealed to me that fear had knocked, though less forcibly, at her heart also. We had no time for more; she came in, Marguerite with her; her tall, slight form as carefully attired as usual in her invariable dress. I had been sitting in the chair she had adopted, and she glanced towards it. It was not in its usual posi tion. I placed it so immediately, and was rewarded by a look, which can never die out of the heart it penetrated. We arranged her cushions and footstool, drew a shawl loosely round her, and in compliance with her wishes, commenced our usual avocations. She listened with her customary attention to the girls, while they read alternately in Italian; she made her ordinary, graceful, keen, cultivated, tasteful criticisms, she inspected Maud's pencil drawing, and sat by her easel. Late in the afternoon, when Marguerite was reading English, she looked up from her book to make a remark to me, and glancing at Mrs. Ross, said, "I think she is asleep." She had fallen into one of those heavy slumbers, which give oblivion, but not physical refreshment. We laid another shawl over her, and sat in profound silence. I gazed at the beautiful face, to note the change more closely than I had yet an opportunity of doing. How beautiful that face was, I have no words to tell, for its loveliness was of that country, whose speech is not yet ours. The beauty which was earthly in it was nearly gone now, I saw that the demolition was gaining in rapidity. The hands were lying supinely in her lap, they were beautiful still, though attenuated, and through them and over her lips, passed frequently that tremulous quiver, which I knew so well. The deep, short breathing, the labouring chest, the dropped under lip, the wet brow and dilated nostril, all were there the sign and seal. When we had watched for some time, and pale dread had deepened in Maud's face, she softly left the room. After a while she came back to say that dinner was served, but she had prevented its announcement lest the sleeper might have been disturbed. Go to dinner," she said, "with Marguerite, I will remain here."

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There was something in the girl's manner quite new-a steady decision and resolution. I could not help looking curiously at her, while I obeyed her without speaking. She was a woman now, in suffering she had gained strength. Our meal passed almost in silence. I saw the question on Marguerite's lips, which she dared not speak, and which I equally dared not answer. When we returned to the library Mrs. Ross was awake, and was leaning forward in her chair, her hands folded over the dark ringlets,

which hid Maud's face as it lay in her lap-her eyes were lustrous, her cheeks were streaked with crimson; she spoke low and rapidly in Italian to the poor girl, who half kneeled, half lay beside her. I saw this scene from the door, knew that my intention had been forestalled, and caught Marguerite back from the door. She stood beside me in the corridor, in terrified silence for a few minutes, then loosing my grasp upon her hand, she rushed into the room, I saw her throw her arms round Mrs. Ross, while she called on Maud in an agony to look up. I could bear no more, I had endured that day all my strength was capable of. I staggered to my own room, and lying down on my bed, cried my heart out in helpless and hopeless misery.

A light step in my room, and Maud's face bending over me, while she held a small lamp back, shading the light from me. "Are you asleep, Grace ?"

"No, my darling."

"Will you go to her, she wants you, we have left her for to-night." Her voice was scarcely articulate, but strangely firm, her tear-marked face, deadly white, but firm, too, almost stern; she clenched her teeth, when the words had been uttered, as if to keep down groans of bodily pain. I rose instantly.

"Where is Marguerite ?"

"In our room, don't mind us, I will take care of her; don't be afraid for me, I can bear it." Her brows were knitted into a frown of endurance, and she trod quite steadily. I saw her pass into her room, and went at once to the library. Mrs. Ross was in her accustomed seat; she stretched out her hands to me, as I hastened to her, and said: "It is over, Grace, they know it now; my only dread, my only grief, has passed away. Grace, I fear, there is much weakness left; I dreaded that they might be more easily reconciled. Is that very wicked ?" "No, dear friend."

"They will never forget me, Grace, when they shall have forgotten their grief, they will remember me." She spoke excitedly, exultingly, the colour deepened in her lips, and glared upon her cheeks, the tearless eyes shone like sudden gas jets. She sat upright, she clutched my hand with an almost painful grasp. The tones of her voice rose, but her language assumed a rhythmical melody, peculiar to her when speaking in her own tongue. "They said they could not bear it at first, but they soon changed when I spoke to them of the long trial of my life, and told them, how the. time I have been here has fitted me for heaven, and for our meeting there. Then, Grace, Maud said, 'she believed God had taken their mother, that they might think more of heaven, for that no motherless girls could find all their happiness on earth, and now because they had never been able to feel motherless since He had sent me to them, I, too, must go away, to keep Him still more in their remembrance.' And Marguerite said, that she had always known her mother must have seen their love for me, and been glad.' They were quieter when they left me. I said, we must be calm and happy while God yet bids me stay; a little, little while only, I know well, but we need not tell them that. And Maud said :

She re

'Trust us, we will try to bear it well, though it is hard."" The excitement of her voice and manner alarmed me, artificial strength inspired her, she seemed on wings. A pang of such exceeding keenness seized upon me, I could not, help crying out, "And I, am I, too, not to grieve?" Her manner changed, softened, subsided into a sweet solemn calm. leased my hands, and leaned back looking at me. "Surely you are, Grace; if in that great heart of yours, there be any alloy of self! I invoke upon you, Grace Armytage, the blessing of the God of mercy; I bequeath to you the eternal remembrance of the gratitude of a sinner, turned by God's grace, through your charity, from the everlasting darkness, and I charge you to keep my treasure, as you have kept it, until that day when I shall hear these words spoken unto you: 'Inasmuch as you have done it unto these little ones, you have done it unto Me." There was an awful grandeur in her voice, a lustrous glory in her eyes, which kept me silent. tears were restrained in their cells. When she had ceased speaking, she slowly rose, and stood by her chair with her hand upon it, just as I remembered, even in that moment, that I had seen him stand, on one momentous day in my life; gazed thoughtfully, fondly round, on every object within her sight, and then passed her hand through my arm, and slowly left the room with me.

My

It was now the tenth day after the events I have recorded, and she had grown rapidly worse. Mr. Lydyard had been in the house some hours. We had received a letter announcing the death of General Hauton, which had made me decide upon waiting to communicate with Mr. Lydyard, until after the funeral should have taken place. I knew he could not consistently leave London before that time, and when it had expired, I wrote to him, but cautiously. I had not forgotten my promise, but I knew that now it would never be claimed. He had arrived as soon as possible after the receipt of my letter; I had met him, and told him all the truth. Also, that I dared not let him see her at present, the physicians having warned me, that any departure from absolute quiet might be instantly fatal to her.. He listened in silence, and replied: "You are right, Grace." That was all; a strong man always,. of a great heart, he suffered and was very still. I arranged with him that he should remain in the dressing-room, which adjoined the chamber of death, after the girls should have left it for the night, so that I might call him if requisite. When I left him I sent the girls to him, they remained a short time, and returned, much agitated. "Papa feels so much for us," said Maud;. "oh, Grace, if he knew her as we do; he would feel with us. (Ah, Maud, my darling, in this world you will never, never know whence sprung the intuitive increase of sympathy, which in the future made the tie between you and her, the strongest and the sweetest I ever witnessed)." Her grief and Marguerite's were past telling, but they had not forgotten their promise to her, and never swerved from its performance. Always with her, useful, self-possessed, silent, obedient to instructions; they were truly heroic in that dreadful time.

"The folding of the hands, the burthen of life is for the future, Grace," said Maud, and she never loosened the rein with which she held down emo

tion, while her doing so might have impeded her usefulness: A's I have said, ten days had elapsed, and I knew the end was very, very near. The dreadful lingering was spared her. What terrific suffering those ten days and nights witnessed, God knows, we who watched her can only guess. What anguish, like the compression of all the grief ordinarily allotted to as many years, they brought to us, those who have meted out time by the measure of such hours, alone can tell. With very few and short intervals, during which a kind of vacant, merely muscular smile, seemed to bespeak the occasional wandering of the mind, she had been perfectly sensible all this time. She was forbidden to attempt to speak, and, beyond murmuring our names now and then, had not infringed the prohibition. Her patience was supreme, no complaint ever escaped her; the low, unconscious moan alone told of the perpetual presence of pain.

Maud and Marguerite had left her reluctantly, very late in the night, and I had made the appointed signal. A slight sound in the adjoining room told me that Mr. Lydyard was there. The morning had come, a soft, mournful, beautiful autumnal morning. The golden streaks were in the sky, utter stillness was on the garden, the leaden fountain looked gray and solemn, some fallen leaves lay upon the unswept grass. Within the room the angel of death was brooding, his broad, dusky wings sweeping nearer and nearer. She had been very calm for some time, the weary head lay still, the twitching fingers were relaxed and quiet, the cough and the low involuntary moan had ceased.

I was sitting by her bed when the morning light glowed softly on the window-panes. I remember a fancy occurring to me, to count the golden gleams. I remember these words, from the book of the Revelation, passing through my mind, "They shall not need any candle, neither the light of the sun, for the Lord God shall be the light thereof," when she said, "Grace." I turned, she was looking at me with wide, bright eyes. The face out of which they looked was dreadful, but the might that can overcome Death's-empire in our poor human frame, triumphed over the ghastliness of feature, and arrested my heart-throbs by its potent force. The hand stretched out, the figure half raised, had something like a shadowy trace of vigour in them. I bent over her. "What is it, dearest ?" "Raise me up." I piled the pillows up, holding her on my arm, until I had placed them, so that they could support the sinking weight yet a little longer. An ashen hue was creeping over her lips even then. When I had laid her down against the heap of pillows, she said: "Call Ralph, I know he is here." He was, indeed; I found him standing by the half-open door, his features set in all the rigidity of a strong man's grief. I touched his arm, and whispered: "The time is come-she calls you."

He crossed the room to her bedside; he sank upon his knees beside it, with a groan like that which he had uttered in my hearing, six years before. The shaking hand signed to me. I drew near; "Hold me up, Grace." With incredible difficulty I lifted her; it was as if a leaden weight were dragging her downwards from my hold. My arms were strained to the utmost I could bear; but I did hold her up. She placed both the skeleto