over from Bratham Abbey, bringing a note from Dr. Caley that told her
of her old friend's sudden death, and of Hilda's dangerous condition,
and her desire to see her. The receipt of this news plunged her into a
fresh access of grief, for she had grown fond of the old man; nor had
the warm affection for Hilda that had found a place in her gentle
heart been altogether wrenched away; and, now that she heard that her
rival was face to face with that King of Terrors before whom all
earthly love, hate, hope, and ambition must fall down and cease their
troubling, it revived in all its force; nor did any thought of her own
wrongs come to chill it.

Within half an hour she was at the door of the Abbey House, where the
doctor met her, and, in answer to her eager question, told her that,
humanly speaking, it was impossible her friend could live through
another twenty-four hours, adding an injunction that she must not stay
with her long.

She entered the sick-room with a heavy heart, and there from Hilda's
dying lips she heard the story of her marriage and of Philip's
perfidy. Their reconciliation was as complete as her friend's failing
voice and strength would allow. At length she tore herself away, and,
turning at the door, took her last look at Hilda, who had raised
herself upon her elbow, and was gazing at her retreating form with an
earnestness that was very touching. The eyes, Maria felt, were taking
their fill of what they looked upon for the last time in this world.
Catching her tearful gaze, the dying woman smiled, and, lifting her
hand, pointed upwards. Thus they parted.

But Maria could control herself no longer: her own blasted prospects,
the loss of the man she loved, and the affecting scene through which