already written."

"It will be too late, sir," I got out, hoarsely--"my sister cannot survive
the day."

I perceived that Mr. Hardinge was not prepared for this, his cheek grew
pale, and his hand trembled as he sealed the epistle. Still he sent it, as
I afterwards discovered.

"God's will be done!" the excellent divine murmured. "If such should
really be his holy will, we ought not to mourn that another humble
Christian spirit is called away to the presence of its great Creator!
Rupert can, at least, attend, to do honour to all that we can honour of
the saint we lose."

There was no resisting or contending with so much simplicity and goodness
of heart; and, had it been in my power, a summons to the room of Grace
called all my thoughts to her. My sister's eyes were now open. I
shuddered, felt a sinking of the heart like that produced by despair, as I
caught their unearthly or rather their supernatural expression. It was not
that anything which indicated death in its more shocking aspects met my
look, but simply that I could trace the illumination of a spirit that
already felt itself on the eve of a new state of being, and one that must
at least separate all that remained behind from any further communication
with itself. I am not certain that I felt no pang at the thought my sister
could be entirely happy without any participation on my part in her bliss.
We are all so selfish that it is hard to say how far even our most
innocent longings are free from the taint of this feature of our nature.

But Grace, herself, could not entirely shake off the ties of kindred and