"Poor Miles! I almost wish we could go together! You have been a dear,
good brother to me"--(What a sweet consolation I afterwards found in these
words)--"It grieves me to leave you so nearly alone in the world. But you
will have Mr. Hardinge, and our Lucy--"

The pause, and the look that succeeded, caused a slight tremour to pass
over my frame. Grace's eyes turned anxiously from me to the form of the
kneeling and weeping Lucy. I fancied that she was about to express a wish,
or some regret, in connection with us two, that even at such a moment I
could not have heard without betraying the concern it would give me. She
did not speak, however, though her look was too eloquent to be mistaken. I
ascribed the forbearance to the conviction that it would be too late,
Lucy's affections belonging to Andrew Drewett. At that instant I had a
bitter remembrance of Neb's words of "I sometime wish, Masser Mile, you
and I nebber had see salt water." But that was not the moment to permit
such feelings to get the mastery; and Grace, herself, felt too clearly
that her minutes were numbered to allow her mind to dwell on the subject.

"An Almighty Providence will direct everything for the best, in this as in
other things," she murmured; though it was still some little time, I
thought, before her mind reverted to her own situation. The welfare of two
as much beloved as Lucy and myself, could not be a matter of indifference
to one of Grace's disposition, even in the hour of death.

Mr. Hardinge now knelt, and the next quarter of an hour passed in prayer.
When the divine rose from his knees, Grace, her countenance beaming with
an angelic serenity, gave him her hand, and in a clear, distinct voice,
she uttered a prayer for blessings, connecting her petitions with the
gratitude due him, for his care of us orphans. I never saw the old man so