forever; but, that morning, the first in which I keenly felt that my
sister was lost to me, I actually missed her graceful, eloquent, silence!

"Miles," said Lucy, as she rose from the table, tears trembling on her
eyelids as she spoke, "half an hour hence come to the family room. Grace
wishes to see you _there_ this morning, and I have not been able to deny
her request. She is weak, but thinks the visit will do her good. Do not
fail to be punctual, as waiting might distress her. Good morning, dearest
papa; when I want _you_, I will send for you."

Lucy left us with these ominous notices, and I felt the necessity of going
on the lawn for air. I walked my half-hour out, and returned to the house
in time to be punctual to the appointment. Chloe met me at the door, and
led the way in silence towards the family room. Her hand was no sooner
laid on the latch than Lucy appeared, beckoning me to enter. I found Grace
reclining on that small settee, or _causeuse_, on which we had held our
first interview, looking pallid and uneasy, but still looking lovely and
as ethereal as ever. She held out a hand affectionately, and then I saw
her glance towards Lucy, as if asking to be left with me alone. As for
myself, I could not speak. Taking my old place, I drew my sister's head on
my bosom, and sat holding it in silence for many painful minutes. In that
position I could conceal the tears which forced themselves from my eyes,
it exceeding all my powers to repress these evidences of human grief. As I
took my place, the figure of Lucy disappeared, and the door closed.

I never knew how long a time Grace and I continued in that tender
attitude. I was not in a state of mind to note such a fact, and have since
striven hard to forget most that occurred in that solemn interview. After
a lapse of so many years, however, I find memory painfully accurate on all
the leading circumstances, though it was impossible to recall a point of