see that you never betray my trust."

Then, turning to Pigott, she said, in a fainter voice--

"Thank you for your kindness to me. You have a good face; if you can,
stop with my child, and give her your love and care. And now, may God
have mercy on my soul!"

Then came a minute's silence, broken only by the stifled sobs of those
who stood around, till a ray of light from the rising sun struggled
through the grey mist of the morning, and, touching the heads of
mother and child, illumined them as with a glory. It passed as quickly
as it came, drawing away with it the mother's life. Suddenly, as it
faded, she spread out her arms, sighed, and smiled. When the doctor
reached the bed, her story was told: she had fallen asleep.

Death had been very gentle with her.



CHAPTER XIII

Go, my reader, if the day is dull, and you feel inclined to moralize--
for whatever may be said to the contrary, there are less useful
occupations--and look at your village churchyard. What do you see
before you? A plot of enclosed ground backed by a grey old church, a
number of tombstones more or less decrepit, and a great quantity of
little oblong mounds covered with rank grass. If you have any
imagination, any power of thought, you will see more than that. First,
with the instinctive selfishness of human nature, you will recognize