We both slept that night, Lotty and I, in a large bed-room separated from uncle and aunt's by an ante-room. The folding windows, as in all the rooms, opened upon the balcony, and were only shaded by venetian blinds, which allowed of seeing clearly out, but not into the room. We were dropping asleep when Charlotte suddenly exclaimed in a drowsy voice: "By the way, Mechie, did aunty say anything to you about going away? She told me this evening she was—where to, I wonder?—and, from what she said, evidently intends leaving us behind—a thing she has not done before."

Of the four beloved beings comprising my heart's home (aunt, uncle, Lotty and Susan), our gentle Aunt Rossiter was the most dear to me, and the thought of being separated from her, even for a day, was more inexpressibly painful to me than until thus tried I had conceived possible. Starting up and leaning on my elbow, I looked at Charlotte, saying: "No, she did not tell me. What did she mean? What was she alluding to when she said it?"

"Oh, I can't remember that," replied Charlotte, pettishly; to her the matter did not seem one of much interest. "And indeed, Mechie, I wish you would not fly up in that extraordinary manner, just as if I had told you poor, quiet aunty had talked of setting the hotel on fire. Do try and be more rational, and less of an uncontrolled child. At this hour of the night especially your wild behaviour quite worries me. Lie down and go to sleep. Aunty will be sure to tell us all about it to-morrow."

"Oh, Lotty, I can't sleep till you tell me all you know. Please do—everything she said."

"But I have nothing to tell you, for the simple reason that aunt, as I said, refused to answer my questions. So now, pray, do not talk any more. The matter is not worth the fuss you are making, and I am very sleepy." Thereupon Charlotte turned her back to me.

"Lotty, look here! just tell me, word for word, what aunty said about going away, and what led to her saying it at all, and I won't disturb you any more to-night, I won't indeed."

"Dear me! what a nuisance you are, Mechie, with your curiosity and your questions!" cried Charlotte, impatiently. "Well, remember you are to keep to your word, for it's little enough I have to tell you, and little satisfied you will be with it, any more than you are now; but I can't help that, bear in mind. Let me see: aunt had been giving me a lecture on the subject of truthfulness, though why I cannot conceive, for no person is more truthful than I am. I hate a falsehood, and never utter one—though I don't pretend to say I go headforemost at everything in the steeplechase fashion you do," continued she, correcting herself rather, as the "cloud-hand" rose to her recollection as last she saw it creeping through a cleft on the mountain top. "I do not consider that necessary for either the sense or truthfulness of anything."

"But, Lotty," I said in a deprecatory voice, fearing to offend her, "don't you remember what uncle said?"

"Don't bring forward what uncle and aunt say about the matter," broke in Charlotte, impatiently. "They are full of old-fashioned notions on that and many other points not worth repeating."

I felt my cheeks burn at this contemptuous treatment of opinions I perfectly reverenced, but continued gently: "What uncle said would be just as applicable to any period, past or present. He said that if in describing any circumstance, conversation, or even feelings, the narrator omitted or altered the smallest part, with deceptive intent to change the character of the whole statement and produce a different impression on the minds of the hearers than a straightforward account of the simple facts would have done, it was tantamount to asserting a positive falsehood, since 'lying is but the intention to deceive;' and that phase of it is as hateful and sinful in the sight of God as any other."

"According to that, then, an abridged book, in which all that is objectionable is left out, is not worth reading, because the remainder, though good, gives rise to an erroneous impression of the whole."

"That is hardly a good illustration, Lotty," I answered. "It admits of many positions, which truth does not."

"I don't see how that can be," objected Lotty.

"Well, this one alone is sufficient: In altering a book by, as you say, leaving out the objectionable parts, the motive could only be a good one, and not under any circumstances with an intention of deceiving; it is done with a wish to render the work to all readers harmless."

At this juncture Charlotte gave so loud a snort in pretended imitation of snoring that it quite startled me.

"Oh, Lotty!" I cried, "how could you?"

"What is it, dear? what's the matter?" cried the naughty thing in a well-assumed bewilderment.

I could not resist laughing a little, exclaiming, "Oh, for shame, Lotty!" Then anxiously I begged her to answer my first question regarding aunt's allusion to going away.

"Dear me, Mechie!" cried my sister; "I do wish you would let me go to sleep! What a pest you are, to be sure, when you get anything into your head! I'm sorry I was goose enough to tell you a word about it till to-morrow morning, when you might have talked and queried as much as you liked, and I could have listened and answered as much or as little as I liked. However, this is all I know of the matter, so now listen for once and all. Aunty, as I told you, was scolding away—"

I could not withstand an interruption: "Poor aunty scold! she never did such a thing in her life!"

"Well, lecturing then; and in my opinion that's worse; I would rather a good deal have one of Susan's scoldings. Short and sharp, they always either frighten or anger me, which prevents my feeling weary and sleepy, both which sensations afflict while undergoing a lecture from dear, good, well-meaning aunty."

"Please go on, Charlotte," I interrupted. Nothing was more unpleasant to me than this style of flippant invective toward our generous benefactors which Lotty was so fond of indulging in. She thought it witty, I know, and it was this, I felt sure, which instigated her to exercise so unamiable a humour, and not any want of affection for them.

"I am going on faster than you like, or you wouldn't say that, Miss Mechie," she said; "however, I have no wish to lose time. After aunty had lectured me to her heart's content she kissed me, and concluded with these words in a lower voice that trembled, I thought, a little: 'I shall not be always with you, my love. I may not be so long, even. God only knows;' and then she added something about wishing to her heart that before she left us we should both have become all that is pleasing to our heavenly Father. I asked her what she meant and where she was going to, but she only answered, 'We will not talk of that now,' and made me finish the account of our evening's adventure; and that's all I can tell you, so good-night!"

"Oh, I wonder you could have forgotten aunt's words until only just now!" said I in a low, unsteady voice.

"There's nothing particular to remember in them that I can see," replied Charlotte, carelessly; "people must be separated sometimes; aunt is going on a visit for a little while, no doubt. She has not left home by herself within my memory—that is, without us—and it is high time she should begin, I think. But now go to sleep, do; I have told you everything, and if you talk any more, I won't answer you, so do not trouble me any longer, I beg of you." Thereupon she again turned her back, and in a few minutes I distinguished by her regular breathing she was fast asleep.

Not so with myself. I could not sleep; every wish to do so was gone, chased away by my sister's words, and I lay looking out on the balcony, that appeared white as snow beneath the silver moonlight. What did aunt mean? why had she not told me? and why when saying it to Charlotte did her voice lower and tremble? Those changes must have been conspicuous indeed for my careless sister to have observed them. Then came back suddenly to my recollection the words spoken by aunt, which, though not understood by me at the time, nevertheless took such painful hold upon my heart: "For indeed, my dear children, I am not strong, and it would be no light matter to me to experience the hours of anxiety," etc. Coupling this sentence with the announcement made to Charlotte, could it be? did she know it? was she—was she going to die?

This thought, which seemed to flash like fire through my brain, sent a rush of agony to my heart beyond my power to lie still and endure. Softly leaving the bed, I stole to the window and sat down, and gazed for some time with tearless, unconscious eyes on the singular view, white and ghost-like in the moonbeams. Our kind, gentle, loving benefactress—oh, more than that, our tender, devoted mother!—was she going to die? going to leave us? Were we never again to meet in this world? to hear her soft, earnest voice? be encouraged and brightened by her affectionate smile?

The hour, the wild loneliness of the place and the death-like stillness within and without sharpened these reflections to a degree of keenness which for a while quite bewildered me by the intensity of their misery, they were so new, so sudden and so unprepared for; for though always delicate, our cheerful, enduring, uncomplaining aunt was one of the very last people with whom I should of myself have connected the chill, dreary idea of death; for—alas that so it is and ever will be!—darkness and cold and dreariness are the brief attributes of death to our mortal nature, and we shrink from it even when the sting is removed and the grave no longer triumphs.

But now, the perception once awakened, one remembrance after another came thronging to my mind, until dread doubt became an overwhelming certainty, and bowing my face in my hands upon my knees, I wept such tears as I had never before shed in my young life. Nor did they bring me that relief the tears of childhood had hitherto done; they were hot and scalding, and seemed but to scorch my pained heart. After a while I bethought me I was not acting as aunt would approve, and how unhappy it would make her were she now to see me thus hopelessly and rebelliously yielding myself up to sorrow. Sliding down upon my knees, I prayed long and ardently—prayed that dear aunt might be spared. Oh, never before had I experienced more truly the feeling of praying from my soul and heart as I did now! My whole being trembled with the fervour of my petitions. I wished to pray for our good, kind uncle, that support might be given him, if God, in his divine wisdom, still saw best to remove her from amongst us, and for a spirit of submission in myself, but I could not. I felt as if it were impossible any amount of support could in the slightest degree reconcile us to a loss that seemed like wrenching away the principal part of our very existence. I grew more calm, however, for prayer will always bring a peace to the believer's heart which the whole world cannot give at such times, and presently I returned again to my bed and to a dreamy sleep extending later into the beautiful morning than I wished.