sister's mind was the consequence of any shock received in that long,
intense look at the wood, or whether it proceeded from the sinking of the
system, and was connected with that mysterious link which binds the
immortal part of our being so closely to the material, until the tie is
loosened forever. It is certain, however, that Grace's thoughts wandered;
and, while they never lost entirely their leaning towards faith and a
bright Christian hope, they became tinctured with something allied to
childish simplicity, if not absolutely to mental weakness. Nevertheless,
there was a moral beauty about Grace, that no failing of the faculties
could ever totally eradicate.

It was fully half an hour that the breathing quiet of prayer lasted. In
all that time my sister scarcely stirred, her own hands being clasped
together, and her eyes occasionally lifted to heaven. At length she seemed
to revive a little, and to observe external objects. In the end,
she spoke.

"Lucy, dearest," she said, "what has become of Rupert? Does he know I am
dying? If so, why does he not come and see me, for the last time?"

It is scarcely necessary for me to say how much Lucy and myself were
startled at this question. The former buried her face in her hands without
making any reply; but good Mr. Hardinge, altogether unconscious of
anything's being wrong, was eager to exculpate his son.

"Rupert has been sent for, my dear child," he said, "and, though he is
engrossed with love and Miss Merton, he will not fail to hasten hither the
instant he receives my letter."

"Miss Merton!" repeated Grace, pressing both her hands on her