At last there was a movement, and a faint sigh as the sleeper awoke. Bella, by a kind of instinctive movement, rose, and holding out her arms, took the baby that the nurse might be at liberty to attend to the mother. It was a strange moment. The little creature had ceased moaning, and lay quite tranquil, its tiny face looking whiter and more wax-like under the shadow of the heavy crape veil which hung partly over it. It even seemed to nestle closer to the heart through which its touch sent so keen a stab of pain, and the young widow bent low over it as her eyes were blinded for an instant by a vision of what might have been. What might have been! The happiness she had just begun to taste, the hope that would have made her future bright, had been crushed together by this child's father—yet the frail little creature lay tenderly cradled in her arms. She looked at it; she touched the soft cheek with her cold and trembling lips; she seemed by her own will to press the sting through and through her heart; and as she did so, she saw and accepted her part in life—to have henceforth no individual existence, but to fill her solitary days with thoughts of charity, and to draw from the recollection of her own anguish the means of consolation for the griefs of others.

Lucia turned away. She guessed something, though but little, of her friend's thoughts, and moved towards the bed, to be ready to speak to Mrs. Clarkson. The little girl, released by her mother's waking, slipped down, and joined her brother, and Lucia, seeing herself perceived, went round to the place she had occupied.

"I do not know whether you know me, Mrs. Clarkson," she said. "I am Lucia Costello. Doctor Hardy told my mother of your illness, and she sent me to see whether we cannot be of some use to you or the little ones."

Lucia had puzzled beforehand over what she should say, but finally her little speech was just what happened to come into her head at the moment. However, it made small difference, since the speech and the manner were both kind, and kindness was the first thing needed.

Mrs. Clarkson looked at her with a mixed expression of gratitude and eagerness.

"It's not for me, miss," she said earnestly, "but for the poor little ones. I used to be a good one to work, but, you see, I can't work for 'em now—not at present."

And tears of extreme weakness filled her eyes.

Lucia laid her hand softly on the thin fingers that lay nervously catching at the edge of the sheet.

"Don't be the least afraid about them," she answered. "Mamma and the doctor will see that they are taken care of; only we thought you would be glad to know that people were thinking about them. There is another visitor here who can do you more good than I can—Mrs. Morton."

Lucia moved aside, and Bella took her place. Mrs. Clarkson looked up anxiously, with her whole desire written on her pale face, and was answered at once,

"You must make haste and get well," Bella said with a smile. "As soon as you are able, I want to talk to you about business. You will have to manage all the improvements I am going to make."

"Me? But you don't mean to let us stay?"

"Indeed I do."

The poor woman tried to cover her eyes with her thin hand, but had not strength. She whispered, "Thank God," as the heavy drops rolled from under her quivering eyelids.

"I am going away directly," Bella said, "because you ought to rest; but I want you to understand first, that I have not the least intention of disturbing you in your house. We have both paid dearly enough for our connection. It shall rest now without any further dispute. I will come again and see you. About money, it will be quite time enough to think when you are better. Try to keep free from anxiety for these little ones' sakes."

She was still holding the baby, soothing it with a gentle rocking motion; and so she moved round again from the bedside and stood by the stove. The child seemed to be asleep, and, reluctant to disturb it, she still delayed giving it up, though it was time to go away. The nurse had lingered for a moment tending the mother; then she came and stood ready to take the child. Both were looking down on the pale little face, when they saw it suddenly change. All at once the eyes opened wide, the muscles were drawn and contracted, a line of foam started out between the lips. One violent convulsion passed over the limbs, then they fell loose and nerveless; the eyes closed, the lips parted—the life, scarcely twenty-four hours old, had passed away.

So sudden, so strange was the event—the almost instantaneous gliding from life to death—that Bella had not altered her position, or loosened her clasp when the final change, so awful and yet so beautiful, settled down upon the baby's face. Then she put it into the nurse's arms, and they looked at one another. They dared not speak, for the mother would have heard them, and their consultation how to tell her must needs be a speechless one; but what consultation could have altered the fact, or softened the awe and terror with which they bent over that little lifeless form? Lucia came from the low chair where the two elder children sat together, and where she had been talking softly to them; she came to Bella's side, and saw the truth. It was but by a gesture that her cry of horror could be repressed, but it was repressed, and for a minute the three paused irresolute and tearful, wondering what to do?

Then the nurse said softly,

"She's got to know it, poor soul! It's best tell her at once," and stepped to the bedside.

But there was no need to tell anything. With that strange quick intuition which so often saves the actual speaking of such tidings, the mother seemed to see what had happened.

"He's gone?" she said, with a weak quivering voice. "My baby!" And her eyes seemed to devour the still little form which she had not strength to put out her hand to touch. The kind woman laid down the child for a moment where the mother's lips could touch its cold cheek.

"Don't fret," she said, while tears rolled down her own face; "there's three on 'em yet, as wants their mother to take care on 'em."

She seemed to have touched with instinctive skill the right chord for consolation. Mrs. Clarkson spoke again after a minute with a steadier and calmer voice,

"You'll lay him by me now?" she said. "It can't wake him out of his sleep, and I'd like to see him till the last. Is Mrs. Morton there still?"

Bella came to her.

"Did you see him go?" she asked. "I was very thankful to you before, but I am more now, because you came just in time. Don't you think the little ones that never spoke in this world will be able to speak up there?"

"Yes, I think so," Bella answered, fancying that her mind began to wander.

"And so you see my man is sure to ask what we were all doing, and the little one would be able to tell him how good you'd been to us."

She stopped; tears flowed softly, but she was too weak for violent grief; and so the two girls left her, after having given the nurse money for present use, and learned what comforts were most needed.

On their return they did not stop at all in Cacouna, but drove straight to the Cottage. Mrs. Bellairs was still there, and sent word to her sister by Margery to dismiss the sleigh and come in, that they might return home together. They found the two ladies sitting "conferring by the parlour fire," and eager to hear the result of their visit to Beaver Creek. Lucia saw that the narration must come from her; for Bella, worn out by the painful excitement of the morning, was incapable of describing what had so greatly moved her, and could scarcely bear even to hear the baby's death spoken of as a thing not to be regretted.

"Poor little creature!" Mrs. Bellairs said. "Even the mother by-and-by may be glad it is gone."

"Elise!" Bella cried impatiently, "how can you be so cruel? And you are a mother yourself!"

"You forget, dear, what a fate those children have; and yet, since you feel so pitifully towards them, it certainly does not become me to be less charitable;" and the kind-hearted woman wiped furtively the tears of genuine compassion which she had been shedding over the sorrows of the Clarksons, and never thought of defending herself from her sister's blame; though, to tell the truth, she had not in her whole nature a single spark of cruelty or uncharitableness, and that Bella knew perfectly well.

Lucia went on to mention the things really needed by the squatter's family. Mrs. Costello turned to Bella,

"Do you really mean," she asked, "to keep them on the farm after this winter?"

"Yes. I certainly shall not allow them to be turned out as long as they like to stay. I am going to have the land cleared and put under cultivation. I suppose it will be necessary to have a kind of foreman or manager of some sort there; and it has occurred to me that Mrs. Clarkson might take him as a lodger. But before that can be done, the house would have to be enlarged and several alterations made. I must consult William about it."

Both Mrs. Costello and Mrs. Bellairs were surprised to hear the young widow speaking with so much of her old spirit and decision. The fact was that the consciousness that there was something to be done for others had made Bella aware that, in spite of her aching heart, she was still able to do what duties remained to her; and without hesitation, or, indeed, any thought about the matter, she was prepared to take upon herself the management of her own affairs, and to change her brother-in-law's position from that of guardian, resumed since her widowhood, to that of adviser only. In the very depths of her misery she had passed her twenty-first birthday, so that now she would have had in any case the right of acting for herself. It was the very time to which, not many months ago, Mr. Bellairs had looked forward with some anxiety, and which he had thought so well provided for by her marriage; now, in the utter change which had come both to her circumstances and feelings, there was little reason why even the most careful guardian should feel any reluctance to resign his office. But since her widowhood she had so visibly shrunk from all mention of her property, and especially of that part of it which had been the cause of her husband's dispute with his murderer, that her friends naturally wondered now to hear her speak of the management of those very lands in a way which showed that the subject had actually occupied her thoughts.

"I promised Dr. Hardy," Mrs. Costello said, "that the care of providing for the children should be mine. Indeed, I feel bound to do something. I think until they are old enough to be of some use to their mother, it would be well to give her a little allowance for their schooling and clothes; but I shall be away. Will you manage this for me?"

It was so arranged. Mrs. Costello was to leave a certain sum in Mrs. Morton's hands, to be paid monthly to Mrs. Clarkson for the benefit of her children; and, this being settled, the little party had time to turn their thoughts to subjects of more personal interest. They would not meet again until the Costellos returned from Moose Island, which would probably not be for a week at least. The messenger who had carried to Mr. Strafford the news of Christian's death had returned, and brought a letter which only confirmed Mrs. Costello's plans—she and Lucia were to be, for as long a time as they could spare, the guests of their old friend, and Christian was to be laid in the burial ground where so many of his own people already slept.

At last the two sisters left the Cottage, and once more Mrs. Costello and Lucia remained alone in the familiar room. How much seemed to have happened since they were last alone here! and, through great suffering, how much good seemed to have been wrought! The little home seemed pleasanter than ever, and for a moment Mrs. Costello asked herself if it was really necessary that they should leave it? But clearly, if not necessary, it was best. It was best, probably, that Lucia and Maurice should not meet again, and certainly that Lucia should be placed within reach of her future guardians. But Mrs. Costello sighed over her plan.