"And the beautiful, whose record
Is the verse that cannot die,
They too are gone, with their glorious bloom,
From the love of human eye."
Mrs. Hemans.
I cannot dwell minutely on the events of the week that succeeded. Grace
sunk daily, hourly; and the medical advice that was obtained, more as a
duty than with any hope of its benefiting the patient, failed of assisting
her. Mr. Hardinge saw the invalid often, and I was admitted to her room
each day, where she would lie, reclining on my bosom for hours at a time,
seemingly fond of this innocent indulgence of her affections, on the eve
of her final departure. As it was out of the question that my sister
should again visit the family room, the _causeuse_ was brought into her
chamber, where it was made to perform the office to which it had been
several times devoted in its proper apartment since my return from sea.
That venerable chair still exists, and I often pass thoughtful hours in it
in my old age, musing on the past, and recalling the different scenes and
conversations of which it could tell, did it possess consciousness and the
faculty of speech.
Mr. Hardinge officiated in his own church, agreeably to his intention, on
the succeeding Sunday. Lucy remained with her friend; and I make no doubt
their spirits devoutly communed with ours the while; for I mastered
sufficient fortitude to be present at St. Michael's. I could observe an
earnest sympathy in every member of the little congregation; and tears
fell from nearly every eye when the prayer for the sick was read. Mr.
Hardinge remained at the rectory for the further duties of the day; but I
rode home immediately after morning service, too uneasy to remain absent
from the house longer than was necessary, at such a moment. As my horse
trotted slowly homeward, he overtook Neb, who was walking towards
Clawbonny, with an air so different from his customary manner, I could not
help remarking it. Neb was a muscular, active black, and usually walked as
if his legs were all springs; but he moved along now so heavily, that I
could not but see some weight upon the spirits had produced this influence
on the body. The change was, naturally enough, attributed to the state of
affairs with Chloe; and I felt disposed to say a word to my faithful
slave, who had been unavoidably overlooked in the pressure of sorrow that
had weighed me down for the last ten days. I spoke to the poor fellow as
cheerfully as I could, as I came up, and endeavoured to touch on such
subjects as I thought might interest without troubling him.
"This is a famous windfall that has crossed Mr. Marble's track, Neb," I
said, pulling up, in order to go a short distance at an even pace with my
brother-tar. "As nice an old woman for a mother, as pretty a little girl
for a niece, and as snug a haven to moor in, at the end of the voyage, as
any old worn-out sea-dog could or ought to wish."
"Yes, sir, Masser Mile," Neb answered, as I fancied, in the manner of one
who was thinking of something different from what he said; "yes, sir, Mr.
Marble a reg'lar sea-dog."
"And as such not the less entitled to have a good old mother, a pretty
niece, and a snug home."
"No, sir; none de wuss for bin' sea-dog, all must allow. Nebberdeless,
Masser Mile, I sometime wish you and I nebber hab see salt water."
"That is almost as much as wishing we never looked down the Hudson from
the hills and banks of Clawbonny boy; the river itself being salt not far
below us. You are thinking of Chloe, and fancying, that had you stayed at
home, your chance of getting into her good graces would have been better."
"No, Masser Mile; no, _sir_. Nobody at Clawbonny t'ink, just now, of
anyt'ing but deat'."
I started in surprise. Mr. Hardinge kept everything like exaggeration and
those physical excitements which it is so much the habit of certain sects
to mistake for religious impulses, even from the negroes of the Clawbonny
property. Neb's speech sounded more like an innovation of this nature than
I had ever heard among my people; and I looked hard at the fellow for an
instant, before I answered.
"I am afraid I understand you, Neb," was my reply, after a meaning pause.
"It is a relief to me to find that my people retain all their affections
for the children of their old master and mistress."
"We hard-hearted indeed, sir, if we don't. Ah! _Masser_ Mile, you and I
see many dreadful t'ing togeder, but we nebber see any t'ing like dis!"
Neb's dark cheek was glistening with tears as he spoke, and I spurred my
horse, lest my own manhood might give way, there in the road, and in the
presence of those who were fast approaching. Why Neb had expressed sorrow
for having ever gone to sea, I could not account for in any other manner
than by supposing that he imagined Grace was, in some manner, a sufferer
by my absence from home.
When I reached the house, not a soul was visible. The men had all gone to
church, and were to be seen in the distance, coming, along the road,
singly and in a melancholy manner, not a sign of the customary,
thoughtless merriment of a negro escaping a single individual among them;
but it was usual for some of the black Venuses to be seen sunning
themselves at that season, exhibiting their summer finery to each other
and their admirers. Not one was now visible. All the front of the house,
the lawn, the kitchens, of which there were no less than three, and the
kitchen yards; in short, every familiar haunt of the dwelling was deserted
and empty. This boded evil; and, throwing the bridle over a post, I walked
hurriedly towards the part of the building, or _buildings_, would be a
better word, inhabited by Grace.
As I entered the passage which communicated with my sisters own room, the
departure from ordinary appearances was explained. Six or seven of the
negresses were kneeling near the door, and I could hear the low, solemn,
earnest voice of Lucy, reading some of the collects and other prayers
suited to the sick-chamber and to the wants of a parting soul. Lucy's
voice was music itself, but never before had it sounded so plaintively
sweet. The lowest intonation was distinctly audible, as if the dear,
devout creature felt that the Being she addressed was not to be approached
in any other manner, while the trembling earnestness of the tones betrayed
the depth of feeling with which each syllable escaped from the heart. Talk
of liturgies impairing the fervour of prayer! This may be the fact with
those who are immersed in themselves while communing with God, and cannot
consent even to pray without placing their own thoughts and language,
however ill-digested and crude, uppermost in the business of the moment.
Do not such persons know that, as respects united worship, their own
prayers are, to all intents and purposes, a formulary to their listeners,
with the disadvantage of being received without preparation or direction
to the mind?--nay, too often substituting a critical and prurient
curiosity for humble and intelligent prayer? In these later times, when
Christianity is re-assuming the character of the quarrels of sects, and,
as an old man who has lived, and hopes to die, in communion with the
Anglo-American church, I do not wish to exculpate my own particular branch
of the Catholic body from blame; but, in these later times, when
Christianity is returning to its truculency, forgetful of the chiefest of
virtues, Charity, I have often recalled the scene of that solemn
noon-tide, and asked myself the question, "if any man could have heard
Lucy, as I did, on that occasion, concluding with the petition which
Christ himself gave to his disciples as a comprehensive rule, if not
absolutely as a formulary, and imagine the heart could not fully accompany
words that had been previously prescribed?"
No sooner had Lucy's solemn tones ceased than I passed through the crowd
of weeping and still kneeling blacks, and entered my sister's room. Grace
was reclining in an easy chair; her eyes closed, her hands clasped
together, but lying on her knees, and her whole attitude and air
proclaiming a momentary but total abstraction of the spirit. I do not
think she heard my footstep at all, and I stood at her side an instant,
uncertain whether to let her know of my presence, or not. At this instant
I caught the eye of Lucy, who seemed intent on the wish to speak to me.
Grace had three or four small rooms that communicated with each other, in
her part of the dwelling; and into one of these, which served as a sort of
_boudoir_, though the name was then unknown in America, I followed the
dear girl, whose speaking but sad look had bidden me do so.
"Is my father near at hand?" Lucy asked, with an interest I did not
understand, since she must have known he intended to remain at his own
residence, in readiness for the afternoon service.
"He is not. You forget he has to attend to evening prayers."
"I have sent for him--Miles," taking one of my hands in both her own, with
the tenderness a mother would manifest to a very dear child, "_dear_
Miles, you must summon all your fortitude."
"Is my sister worse?" I demanded, huskily; for, prepared as I was for the
result, I was not expecting it by any means so soon.
"I cannot call it worse, Miles, to be about to be called away to God in
such a frame of mind. But it is proper I should tell you all. Rather less
than an hour since, Grace told me that the hour was at hand. She has the
knowledge of her approaching end, though she would not let me send for
you. She said you would have ample time to witness it all. For my father,
however, I have sent, and he must soon be here."
"Almighty Providence! Lucy, do you really think we shall lose Grace so
soon?"
"As it is the will of God to take her from us, Miles, I can scarce repine
that her end should be so easy, and, in all respects, so tranquil."
So long as memory is granted to me, will the picture that Lucy presented
at that moment remain vividly impressed on my mind. She loved Grace as a
most dear sister; loved her as an affectionate, generous-minded, devoted
woman alone can love; and yet, so keenly was she alive to the nature of
the communication it was her duty to make, that concern for me alone
reigned in her saddened and anxious eye. Her mind had schooled itself to
bear its own grief; and meek, believing, and disposed to foresee all that
her profound faith taught her to hope, I do believe she considered my
sister a subject of envy rather than of regret, though her solicitude on
my account was so absorbing. This generous self-denial touched my feelings
in more ways than one, enabling me to command myself to a degree that
might otherwise have been out of my power, during the few succeeding
hours. I felt ashamed to manifest all I endured in the presence of so much
meek but pious fortitude, and that exhibited by one whose heart I so well
knew to be the very seat of the best human affections. The sad smile that
momentarily illuminated Lucy's countenance, as she gazed anxiously in my
face when speaking, was full of submissive hope and Christian faith.
"God's will be done," I rather whispered than uttered aloud. "Heaven is a
place more suited to such a spirit than the abodes of men."
Lucy pressed my hand, and appeared relieved from a load of intense anxiety
by this seeming fortitude. She bade me remain where I was, until she had
herself apprized Grace of my return from church. I could see through the
open door that the negresses had been directed to retire, and presently I
heard the footstep of Mr. Hardinge approaching the room adjoining that in
which I then was, and which answered the purpose of a sort of ante-chamber
for those who came to the sick-room from the more public side of the
house. I met my excellent old guardian in that apartment, and Lucy was at
my side at the next instant. One word from the last sufficed to keep us in
this room while she returned to that of Grace.
"God have mercy on us, my dear boy"--the divine ejaculated, as much in
prayer as in grief--"and I say on _us_, as well as on _you_, for Grace has
ever been dear to me as a child of my own. I knew the blow must come, and
have prayed the Lord to prepare us all for it, and to sanctify it to us,
old and young; but, notwithstanding, death has come 'literally' when no
man knoweth. I must have materials for writing, Miles, and you will choose
an express for me out of your people; let the man be ready to mount in
half an hour; for I shall not require half that time to prepare
my letter."
"Medical advice is useless, I am afraid, dear sir," I answered. "We have
Post's directions, and very respectable attendance from our own family
physician, Dr. Wurtz, who gave me to understand several days since that he
saw no other means of averting the evil we dread than those already
adopted. Still, sir, I shall be easier, if we can persuade Dr. Bard to
cross the river, and have already thought of sending Neb once more on
that errand."
"Do so," returned Mr. Hardinge, drawing towards him a little table on
which Dr. Wurtz had written a few prescriptions that were used more for
form, I believe, than any expectation of the good they could do; and
beginning to write, even while talking--"Do so"--he added--"and Neb can
put this letter in the post-office on the eastern bank of the river, which
will be the quickest mode of causing it to reach Rupert"
"Rupert!" I exclaimed, on a key that I instantly regretted.
"Certainly; we can do no less than send for Rupert, Miles. He has ever
been like a brother to Grace, and the poor fellow would feel the neglect
keenly, did we overlook him on an occasion like this. You seem astonished
at my thinking of summoning him to Clawbonny."
"Rupert is at the springs, sir--happy in the society of Miss Merton--would
it not be better to leave him where he is?"
"What would you think, Miles, were Lucy on her death-bed, and we should
fail to let you know it?"
I gazed so wildly at the good old man, I believe, that even his simplicity
could not avoid seeing the immense difference between the real and the
supposititious case.
"Very true, poor Miles; very true," Mr. Hardinge added, in an apologetic
manner; "I see the weakness of my comparison, though I was beginning to
hope you were already regarding Lucy, once more, with the eyes of a
brother. But Rupert must not be forgotten neither; and here is my letter
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
human love so long as her spirit continued in its earthly tenement. So far
from this, every glance she cast on one or all of us denoted the
fathomless tenderness of her nature, and was filled with its undying
affection. She was weak, frightfully so I fancied; for death appeared to
hasten in order to release her as swiftly and easily as possible; yet did
her interest in me and in Lucy sustain her sufficiently to enable her to
impart much that she wished to say. In obedience to a sign from her, I
knelt at her side, and received her head on my bosom, as near as possible
in that attitude in which we had already passed hours since her illness.
Mr. Hardinge hovered over us, like a ministering spirit, uttering in a
suppressed and yet distinct voice, some of the sublimest of those passages
from scripture that are the most replete with consolation to the parting
spirit. As for Lucy, to me she seemed to be precisely in that spot where
she was most wanted; and often did Grace's eyes turn towards her with
gleamings of gratitude and love.
"The hour is near, brother," Grace whispered, as she lay on my bosom.
"Remember, I die asking forgiveness as much for those who may have done me
wrong, as for myself. Forget nothing that you have promised me; _do_
nothing to cause Lucy and her father sorrow."
"I understand you, sister"--was my low answer. "Depend on all I have
_said_--all you can _wish_."
A gentle pressure of the hand was the token of contentment with which this
assurance was received.
From that moment it seemed to me that Grace was less than usual attached
to the things of the world. Nevertheless, her interest in those she loved,
and who loved her, continued to the last.
"Let all the slaves that wish to see me, enter," Grace said, rousing
herself to perform a trying but necessary duty. "I never can repay them
for all they have done for me; but I trust them to you, Miles, with
confidence."
Lucy glided from the room, and in a few minutes the long train of dark
faces was seen approaching the door. The grief of these untutored beings,
like their mirth, is usually loud and vociferous; but Lucy, dear,
considerate, energetic Lucy--energetic even in the midst of a sorrow that
nearly crushed her to the earth--had foreseen all this, and the blacks
were admitted only on the condition of their preserving a command over
themselves in the interview.
Grace spoke to every one of the females, taking leave of each calmly and
with some useful and impressive admonition, while all the older men were
also noticed personally.
"Go, and rejoice that I am so soon released from the cares of this world,"
she said, when the sad ceremony was over. "Pray for me, and for
yourselves. My brother knows my wishes in your behalf, and will see them
executed. God bless you, my friends, and have you in his holy keeping."
So great was the ascendency Lucy had obtained over these poor simple
creatures during the short time they had been under her mild but
consistent rule, that each and all left the room as quiet as children,
awe-struck by the solemnity of the scene. Still, the oldest and most
wrinkled of their cheeks were wet with tears, and it was only by the most
extraordinary efforts that they were enabled to repress the customary
outbreakings of sorrow. I had gone to a window to conceal my own feelings
after this leave-taking, when a rustling in the bushes beneath it caught
my ear. Looking out, there lay Neb, flat on his face, his Herculean frame
extended at full length, his hands actually gripping the earth under the
mental agony he endured, and yet the faithful fellow would not even utter
a groan, lest it might reach his young mistress's ears, and disquiet her
last moments. I afterwards ascertained he had taken that post in order
that he might learn from time to time, by means of signs from Chloe, how
things proceeded in the chamber above. Lucy soon recalled me to my old
post, Grace having expressed a wish to that effect.
"It will be but an hour, and we shall all be together again," Grace said,
startling us all by the clearness and distinctness of her enunciation.
"The near approach of death places us on a height whence we can see the
entire world and its vanities at a single view."
I pressed the dying girl closer to my heart, a species of involuntary
declaration of the difficulty I experienced in regarding her loss with the
religious philosophy she was inculcating.
"Mourn not for me, Miles"--she continued--"yet I know you will mourn. But
God will temper the blow, and in his mercy may cause it to profit you
for ever."
I did not, could not answer. I saw Grace endeavouring to get a look at my
countenance, as if to observe the effect of the scene. By my assistance
she was so placed as to obtain her wish. The sight, I believe, aroused
feelings that had begun to yield to the influence of the last great
change; for, when my sister spoke next, it was with a tenderness of accent
that proved how hard it for those who are deeply affectionate to lose
their instincts.
"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
much touched before. This unexpected benediction, for it had that
character, coming from youth to age, quite unmanned him. The old man sunk
into a chair, weeping uncontrollably. This aroused Lucy, who regarded the
grey hairs of her father with awe, as she witnessed the strength of his
emotions. But feelings of this nature could not long absorb a man like Mr.
Hardinge, who soon regained as much of the appearance of composure as it
was possible to maintain by such a death-bed.
"Many may think me young to die," Grace observed; "but I am weary of the
world. It is my wish to submit myself to the will of God; but, blessed be
his holy name, that he sees fit to call me to him this day. Lucy, beloved
one--go into the next room, and draw the curtain asunder; I shall then be
enabled to gaze on the fields of dear Clawbonny once more; that will be my
last look at the outer world."
This leave-taking of inanimate things, objects long known and loved, is of
frequent occurrence with the dying. It is not in our natures to quit for
ever this beautiful world, without casting "one longing, lingering look
behind." The hand of its divine Creator was gloriously impressed on the
rural loveliness of my native fields that day, and a holy tranquillity
seemed to reign over the grain, the orchards, the meadows, and the wooded
heights. The couch of Grace was purposely placed at a point in her own
chamber that commanded a wide view of the farm, through the vista formed
by the door and windows of the adjoining room. Here she had often sat,
during her confinement to her rooms, contemplating scenes so familiar and
so much loved. I saw her lips quiver as she now gazed on them for the last
time, and was convinced some unusual sentiment, connected with the past,
pressed on her feelings at that instant. I could see the same view myself,
and perceived that her eyes were riveted on the little wood where Rupert
and I had met the girls on our return from sea; a favourite place of
resort, and one that, I doubted not, had often been the witness of the
early confidence between Grace and her recreant lover. Death was actually
hovering over that sainted being at the moment; but her woman's heart was
not, _could_ not, be insensible to the impressions produced by such a
sight. In vain the warm light from the heavens bathed the whole landscape
in a flood of glory; in vain the meadows put forth their flowers, the
woods their variegated, bright, American verdure, and the birds their
innocent gaiety and brilliant plumage; the fancy of Grace was portraying
scenes that had once been connected with the engrossing sentiment of her
life. I felt her tremble, as she lay in my arms; and bending my head
towards her in tender concern, I could just distinguish the murmuring of a
prayer that it was easy to understand was a petition offered up in behalf
of Rupert. This done, she asked, herself, to have the curtain drawn again,
to shut out the obtrusive thought for ever.
I have often thought, since the events of that sad day that Grace's
dissolution was hastened by this accidental recurrence of her mind to
Rupert and his forgotten love. I call it love, though I question if a
being so thoroughly selfish ever truly loved any one but himself; perhaps
not himself, indeed, in a way to entitle the feeling to so respectable an
epithet. Grace certainly drooped the faster from that unfortunate moment.
It is true, we all expected her death, thought it would occur that day
even, though surprised at the suddenness with which it came at last; but
we did not expect it within an hour.
And what an hour was that which succeeded! Both Mr. Hardinge and Lucy
passed quite half of it on their knees, engaged in silent prayer; for it
was thought petitions uttered aloud might disturb the sick. There were
minutes in which the stillness of the tomb already reigned among us. I am
not enough of a physician to say whether the change that now came over my
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
temples--"who is she? I do not remember anybody of that name?"
We now understood that the mind of the dear patient was losing its powers;
of course no efforts were made to give a truer direction to her thoughts.
We could only listen, and weep. Presently, Grace passed an arm round the
neck of Lucy, and drew her towards her, with a childish earnestness.
"Lucy, love," she continued--"we will persuade these foolish boys from
this notion of going to sea. What if Miles's father, and Rupert's
great-grand-father _were_ sailors; it is no reason _they_ should be
sailors too!"
She paused, appeared to meditate, and turned towards me. Her head was
still inclining on my bosom, and she gazed upwards at my face, as fondly
as she did in that tender meeting we held just after my return home, in
the family room. There was sufficient strength to enable her to raise her
pallid but not emaciated hand to my face, even while she passed it over my
cheeks, once more parting the curls on my temples, and playing with my
hair, with infantile fondness.
"Miles," the dear angel whispered, utterance beginning to fail her--"do
you remember what mother told us about always speaking the truth? You are
a manly boy, brother, and have too much pride to say anything but the
truth; I wish Rupert were as frank."
This was the first, the last, the only intimation I had ever heard from
Grace, of her being conscious of any defect in Rupert's character. Would
to God she had seen this important deficiency earlier! though this is
wishing a child to possess the discernment and intelligence of a woman.
The hand was still on my cheek, and I would not have had it removed at
that bitter moment to have been well assured of Lucy's love.
"See," my sister resumed, though she now spoke merely in a whisper--"how
brown his cheek is, though his forehead is white. I doubt if mother would
know him, Lucy. Is Rupert's cheek as brown as this, dear?"
"Rupert has not been as much exposed of late as Miles," Lucy answered
huskily, Grace's arm still clinging to her neck.
The well-known voice appeared to awaken a new train of thought.
"Lucy," my sister asked, "are you as fond of Miles as we both used to be,
when children?"
"I have always had, and shall ever retain, a deep affection for Miles
Wallingford," Lucy answered, steadily.
Grace now turned towards me, releasing her hold of Lucy's neck, from pure
inability to sustain it; and she fastened her serene blue eyes on my
countenance, whence they never deviated while she breathed. My tears were
uncontrollable, and they seemed to perplex rather that distress her. Of a
sudden, we heard her voice aloud, speaking gently, but with a fervour that
rendered it distinct. The words she uttered were full of the undying
affection of a heart that never turned away from me for a single instant;
no, not even in the petulance of childhood. "Almighty Father," she said,
"look down from thy mercy-seat on this dear brother--keep him for thyself;
and, in thy good time, call him, through the Saviour's love, to thy
mansions of bliss."
These were the last words that Grace Wallingford ever spoke. She lived ten
minutes longer; and she died on my bosom like the infant that breathes its
last in the arms of its mother. Her lips moved several times; once I
fancied I caught the name of "Lucy," though I have reason to think she
prayed for us all, Rupert included, down to the moment she ceased
to exist.