To my extreme satisfaction—for there was a vast deal in this wild, out-of-the-world place which particularly took my fancy—uncle and aunt decided upon our remaining a week at Rathfelder's Hotel. Dear aunt had passed a better night than she had done for a long while, Uncle Rossiter said, which made him desirous of trying the effect of a longer stay, and he should go home that day to arrange accordingly and bring back Susan to attend us.

Aunt met my examining eyes fixed upon her—oh, she knew not how anxiously—and smiled lovingly upon me. It was a bright smile, and yet a sad one too. Ah me! what keen note I was beginning to take of every look and tone which came from her now!

"But why can't you sleep, aunty?" inquired Charlotte, carelessly. "Aren't you well?"

"One thing is certain, dear Lotty: we cannot expect always to enjoy the same health," she replied, I thought evasively. "By-the-bye," she continued, abruptly changing the subject, "we must not forget, dear," turning to Uncle Rossiter, "that our wardrobes will require an addition with this unexpected increase of absence from home, so please bear that in mind and mention it to Susan."

In the course of the morning aunt and I went into the garden to enjoy its shade and sweetness. Charlotte preferred remaining on the balcony with her books and work, and as we were the only visitors at that time in the hotel, she would not be interrupted. Having taken a few turns about the paths, we seated ourselves on a rustic bench delightfully shaded by a narquotte tree, whose branches were clustered over with a delicious little golden fruit, while the surrounding air was redolent of odour from a group of young lemon trees in full bloom, and other rich scents.

And now I turned over in my mind how best to introduce the subject nearest my heart. Happily, Aunt Rossiter opened a way for me at once by saying, anxiously: "What makes my little girl so unusually grave and silent this morning? I trust you are not ill, dear child? or has anything occurred between Charlotte and yourself to vex you?"

Upon that I reminded her of her words to Lotty on the previous evening, saying how much the thought of a separation distressed me, and begging her to tell me where she was going to and for what reason, whether on a visit or for change of air.

She did not immediately speak, and I heard her suppress a sigh as, putting her arm round me, she drew me slowly to her side and fondly pressed her lips to my cheek. This silent action spoke volumes to my already trembling heart. An intolerable sensation of anguish, as on the preceding night, came down upon me like lead, oppressing my very breathing. She had confessed nothing, but yet I now felt, felt for a certainty, that I knew all—knew that my worst apprehensions were correct, that death was the coming separation.

Presently she spoke; her voice was a little unsteady, but low and calm: "My beloved child, remember that not a sparrow falls without the will of our heavenly Father. Whatever happens to his servants, whether of outward weal or woe, is certain to be for the best."

"You never said you were ill," I answered, in choking words. "Oh, aunt, why did you not tell me before?"

"Until quite lately I was quite ignorant of the seriousness of my complaint. Even Dr. Manfred was misled by delusive appearances, and believed that I should recover; but God in his wisdom sees fit to ordain it otherwise, and his will be done!" Again she lovingly kissed my cheek, and I unconsciously drew myself away and sat up. A feeling as though I had been stunned half bewildered me. By degrees this passed off, and then, oh how changed everything seemed to me! The brightness of the sun and the flowers, the scented air, the glad voice of birds and brook, were all now but as a hollow mockery of happiness, and I marvelled how they could look and sound so joyous while I felt so unutterably miserable.

At this instant Blurdon came by with his spade on his broad shoulder, and gave me a quick, defiant glance. Something in my face—the impress, I suppose, of the dreary feeling of woe which possessed my whole being—caused him to look again and almost stop.

"You must find this very hot weather for working," aunt said in her kind, winning voice.

"What's the matter with her?" he returned for answer, stopping and indicating myself with a jerk of his thumb.

Aunt hesitated for an instant, and then said: "In common with all human beings, my little girl finds it very difficult and painful sometimes to submit her will to that of her heavenly Father."

"Why, what's she been a-doing of? What harm can the likes of such a soft little creature as that do?" he growled, eyeing me with a perplexed and perplexing stare, for was it possible that this wild, savage, strange man felt sorry for me? And yet I thought he looked as if he did.

"Judging from the style of your accusations against her this morning, you did not then consider her so innocent or harmless," rejoined Aunt Rossiter, smiling, and with intent, I knew, to check further questioning on his part. It instantly took the desired effect.

"Ah, that's true enough!" he exclaimed, savagely. "I'd forgot that, I had. No, it's not always, nor maybe never, for the matter of that, the most innocent-looking things are the safest. I knowed a-many flowers up country as soft and pure to see as she be," nodding his shaggy head at me, "and yet they was as full of poison as they could hold—ay, that they was!" and with another defiant glance, that seemed to dare me to do my worst, he strode on his way.

I longed to ask Aunt Rossiter whether she was very ill, whether the doctor had said she would die soon; but besides that the mere uttering such woeful words made me shrink, I dreaded her answer. I felt if she told me, "Yes, in all human probability she must leave us speedily," I could not bear it.

Once more she came to my assistance. Again putting her arm around my waist and drawing me close to her, she said, in her usual cheerful, heart-comforting voice: "It does not follow, my precious child, that because my disease is mortal it will in consequence be brief. Under the blessing of the Almighty, human skill and care may keep me with my beloved on earth much longer than I think. Trust in the mercy and wisdom of our heavenly Father, therefore, my little daughter; pray for me, pray that he will, if he sees good—only on that condition—permit me to remain amongst you yet a while."

I could only kiss her fondly; I could not speak. "Oh," thought I, "if prayers and entreaties to heaven, if love and care and skill can obtain it, will we not try!"

If only a few days ago sweet, gentle aunty had uttered such uncertain words, how sad and comfortless would they have sounded to my then all-confident soul! but now they came as a bright flash of hope piercing the gloom which enveloped my heart, like an indefinite reprieve to one condemned to execution. One of the wisest, most merciful arrangements of Nature is that gradual advance toward the completion of her works, and not the least so among them is the ready buoyancy of youth—that happy tendency, the result of the ignorance of inexperience, to turn away from the shadowed to the sunny side of life's path. Were it otherwise, were distress and grief to cling to us in the springtime of our existence as in its autumn, alas! how aged should we prematurely become! How soon would the winter of life settle down upon our heads and heart—ay, before the sunshine has even come.

From that day forward, my first, my ever-anxious prayer was for our beloved protectress, my constant thought and care to promote her comfort and guard her from every breath of harm. And as time went on, bringing with it a perceptible change for the better in her general health, so my spirit lightened of its load of solicitude. Albeit I was conscious that the sorrow of that day had cast a shadow between my heart and its before unreflecting joyousness which neither event nor time could remove, yet it was a merciful lesson, teaching my inexperienced soul the uncertainty of all human happiness, teaching me that in the midst of life—ay, the brightest, the most seemingly blessed and prosperous life—we are in death. Ah, boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth!