The funeral was over, and Frank and his brothers examined their mother's papers, to learn, if possible, her last wishes. Everything was in as perfect order as if she had known she was going forth to die. She wished Margaret to remain at Greylock, and that whichever of the family could most conveniently do so, would reside there with her, and keep up the place as of old, until such time as any striking event in the family should make some other plan more desirable.

Nothing, however, could be done at present. Old Mary was left in charge, and the family scattered, gradually, away to their homes. Belle was obliged to go home, on account of her children, and Hatty wanted to go to hers.

"Why couldn't Margaret be brought to me?" asked Laura. "I must be at home, for poor Harry's sake, and Hatty ought to return with Fred. Could we not charter a small steamer, and transport her without danger? What a pity Harry is laid up! He knows every craft on the river."

Frank took the matter in hand. Margaret was their sacred trust now, and must be cared for exactly as if their mother were living. A small steamer was procured, the transportation safely effected, and Laura gave up all other interests in the care of her two patients. In a few days Harry was able to move about the house, and the first time he left his room it was to accompany the physician to Margaret's. She was lying quietly until their entrance, when she aroused, with a more intelligent aspect than she had worn since the disaster. Harry leaned over her and took her hand; she spurned his clasp instantly, with the decided words:

"Not aunty!"

"That is the way she acts to every one who takes her hand," said Laura. "I don't know what it means."

"It means," said Harry, "that she is living over again that awful moment when I asked which should loose her hold on me, herself or mother. It was with precisely that manner that she spurned me, as it were."

"We must avoid taking her hand, if that is the case; and I do not doubt that it is," said the doctor. "What nobility of character she has shown! I never met with so interesting a case. But it is obscure. I should be glad to call in some more experienced man to my aid. Have I your permission to do so?"

"Certainly," said Harry. "Call half a dozen, if necessary. This young lady, to all intents and purposes, gave up a life full of promise to save our mother's; we owe her every tender care, and mean to give it."

"I think she must also have two attendants, so as never to be left alone a moment."

Laura looked at him inquiringly.

"As a precaution," he replied. "There is no knowing what the next phase of the disease may be. She might attempt to injure herself. I should like this pair of scissors removed from the room," he added, taking up a pair that lay within reach.

"How strange and dreadful it all is," said Laura. "If you could have seen her in her days of health, when she never wasted a minute, and contrast it with this listlessness and idleness! O, it all seems so hard! We had been such a happy family; and now everything is changed."

The doctor was silent; he was young and did not know what to say.

After a few moments he said, just touching Margaret's hair:

"I am sorry to say that this must come off."

"She would not care," said Laura. "A more unworldly girl never lived. I believe I was prouder of her than she was of herself."

"I will go to the city this afternoon," said the doctor, "and try to bring one or two of our most eminent men to spend the night; they ought to see our patient's condition at the extremes of the day. Mrs. Worcester, may I trouble you to adjust the thermometer under the arm, as you did yesterday?"

Laura arranged the instrument, and they watched the result in silence. Harry accompanied the doctor down-stairs.

"What was the temperature?" he asked.

"100½," was the reply.

"Do you consider that favorable?"

"Yes. I will see the young lady again to-night."

The tramp of four men entering her room together did not arouse Margaret. She lay in an attitude of great exhaustion as the three physicians, accompanied by Harry, came in, and was, evidently, unconscious of their presence.

"I should like to arouse her if it could be done through some pleasant channel. Had she any favorite pursuits?"

"Yes," said Laura, "she painted beautifully, and was full of enthusiasm about it."

"Speak of it, if you please."

"Margaret," said Laura, coaxingly, "you haven't painted at all to-day. And you paint so beautifully. You'll paint something for me, won't you?"

There was no answer.

"Margaret, dear, you tried to save mamma's life. That was very noble in you. We all thank you so much."

No response.

"Perhaps," very slowly and distinctly, "you think you are lying dead at the bottom of the river, and that God has forgotten your poor soul. But you are not drowned, darling. He could not take you to heaven, because you are alive. Did you fancy, perhaps, that He did not love you, and just left you? Why, He loves you dearly!"

The bewildered brain was reached at last. Like one suddenly awaking from sleep, Margaret looked around upon the group gathered about her. Laura had touched the spring few hands could have reached. It was not the shock of believing herself drowned that had dethroned her reason; it was the horror of being dead and finding her religion a fable. At a signal from the eldest physician all stole quietly away, with the exception of Laura.

Leaning over his patient, he said in kind, fatherly tones:

"You had begun to think there wasn't any God. But there is one. He is here, now. Everything you have ever believed about Him is true. And as it is getting dark, I would say, 'Now I lay me,' and go right to sleep, if I were you."

She looked at him, devouring every word; then, as he gently withdrew out of sight, and Laura did the same, Margaret joined her hands, repeated the prayer, and fell into a sweet, natural sleep.

When the venerable physician rejoined the younger ones, they gathered about him with great reverence.

"I should never have dared to try such an experiment," said one.

"Nor I," said another.

The old man smiled. "I took counsel of One who never errs," he said. "I commend Him to you in all obscure cases. The whole history of my success in my profession lies in this word of Scripture: 'The secret of the Lord is with them that fear Him.' Gentlemen, I think we may return to the city to-night."

"I trust, sir, you will do us the favor to remain, if the others feel inclined to go," said Harry. "It would be a great comfort to my wife, who has been under a great strain. We have long desired to make your acquaintance, and our pure, highland air ought to refresh you."

"I shall have to be off bright and early in the morning, then," was the reply.

The three younger men departed, after a substantial country supper; and as Margaret continued to sleep, only rousing enough to take nourishment, Harry and Laura had Dr. X. all to themselves. They almost sat at his feet, as he told of case after case, that to him, as a man, was hopeless, which yielded to Divine inspiration when that was resorted to.

"Some laugh at the old man," he continued, "and ask why I study my cases at all, and do not give them all over to Providence. My answer is this: As a man endowed with genius has to toil for success, so a soul endowed with faith is obliged to use all earthly means available to an end; God gives no premium to the idler. As long as I live I hope to dig deep into treasures of wisdom and knowledge; but I expect, also, to put every case that baffles human wisdom right into the Divine hand."

He was a genial old man, and the evening spent with him was something Harry and Laura remembered all their lives. He was up in the morning long before they were, and captivated the children by a joyous frolic with them. This was no small refreshment after so many days of sad faces. He went in to see Margaret just before he left. All the soul had come back into her face, but she was still too feeble to speak. She had a wistful look in her bright eyes, but not an anxious one.

"Keep the knowledge of Mrs. Grey's death from her as long as possible," he said to Laura, as he took leave. "Wear a white dress when you go to her room, and assume a cheerful look. Of course, your own physician must watch her with constant care."

Laura had great self-control, and was able to appear as usual when in Margaret's presence. And in a week or two her recovery became very rapid. Now the question was how to break the news to her. Strangely enough she had not asked for Mrs. Grey, or expressed surprise at not seeing her.

"How soon do you think you shall be able to go home?" Laura asked one day.

"I don't know; are you tired of me?"

"No; but when you go we are all going too, and we ought to get away before cold weather."

"That reminds me," said Margaret, starting, "of Mabel's portrait. Did I ever finish it?"

"Not that I know of."

"I ought to go home and finish it. Laura, why didn't aunty come when I did? We were to come together; why didn't we?"

"You forget things, dear. You have been very ill, you know."

"Yes; I suppose she has gone back to Greylock. But why doesn't she write to me? Perhaps I was cross to her when I was sick, and weaned her from me. Was I, Laura?"

"No, indeed."

"I will write to her and tell her how fast I am getting well; then I shall certainly get a letter. Don't you think so?"

Laura was never so tempted to tell a lie. As it was, she answered as carelessly as she could, "It is a long time since I had a letter from her. Are you glad that we are all going to live at Greylock?" asked Laura.

"Oh, are you going there to live? Going to leave this beautiful house? Why, Laura!"

"Mamma wished one of her children to go, and it was most convenient for us; in fact, we are the only ones who could."

"It doesn't seem like aunty to want you to leave this house, just as you are so nicely settled in it. Not an atom like her. Something is going wrong; I am sure there is. Has she gone crazy?"

"No, no. Don't worry about it. We are perfectly satisfied to go."

"Doesn't she like this house? Is that the reason?"

"No, that's not the reason. How could she dislike it when she never saw it. Margaret, how you do tease one."

"Do I?" asked Margaret, very humbly. "I don't mean to tease. Only I am puzzled."

"People always are after such illness as yours."

Margaret was silent, and lay back in her chair, to think.

It was going to be pleasant to have Harry and Laura at Greylock. The more she saw of them the more she liked them. Then there were the children. By the way, where were the children.

"Why, Laura," she said reproachfully, "I haven't seen the children since I came."

"You'll see enough of them at Greylock."

"Oh, but I want to see the dear little things now. Bring them to me; do."

Laura went to the nursery, took off the children's black sashes, charged them to say nothing about grandmamma, and led them in. The moment Margaret's eye fell upon their truthful little faces, she looked at them searchingly, and with a startled air that alarmed Laura.

"Harry, who is dead?" she asked.

"Mamma told me not to tell," said the boy, bursting into tears.

"His face has told me, Laura," said Margaret, faintly. "I see it all now. I made Harry save me, and let her drown!"

"It is not true; you did not let her drown! You tried to die in order to save her. We all admire and love you for it; we will all do anything and everything for you. Only don't look so; for mercy's sake, don't look as if you were dying. Run, children, and call nurse, and do you stay in the nursery. You've done mischief enough for one day. Margaret, won't you speak to me?"

"She's only fainted, ma'am," said the nurse, a middle-aged, experienced woman. "No fear of her dying. Just help me lay her down flat on her back, and sprinkle her face with water. Or, if you please, a little hartshorn."

Laura had had little to do with sickness, and was now so frightened that she could not remember whether the hartshorn should be diluted or not. She hastily mixed it, half and half, and the nurse poured it down Margaret's throat. It had the effect of bringing her to life again instantly; and there came a time when she and Laura could both laugh at the blunder.

Such is our existence here upon earth. Our hearts break and they are healed. We weep and we smile. We fail, and are disappointed, and we try once more. Nothing had befallen Margaret that has not befallen thousands. Her fate might have been infinitely worse than it was. She might have been left friendless and homeless. But here she was surrounded by loving hearts; her home was secured to her; all her plans of life were to be carried out; had she any right to mourn? Indeed she had. She had lost one of the most magnanimous friends ever given to mortal woman; she had lost the tenderest heart that was beating upon earth for her; she had lost the inspiration of a holy example. Did she well to mourn? Yes, yes. But she bore her grief nobly, and on the very day on which the dreadful truth was revealed to her she wrote in her "book of mercies:"

"I understand, now, how one can be glad to suffer God's will when too weak to do it. What a mercy!"