it a privilege each day that she was still permitted to attend her, and watching for each passing word and expression as a treasure to be dwelt on in many a subsequent year.
It could not be thus with Henrietta, bent on seeing no illness, on marking no traces of danger; shutting her eyes to all the tokens that her mother was not to be bound down to earth for ever. She found her always cheerful, ready to take interest in all that pleased her, and still with the playfulness which never failed to light up all that approached her. A flower,-what pleasure it gave her! and how sweet her smile would be!
It was on the evening of the day after the physician's visit, that Henrietta came in talking, with the purpose of, as she fancied, cheering her mother's spirits, of some double lilac primroses which Mrs. Langford had promised her for the garden at the Pleasance. Her mamma smelt the flowers, admired them, and smiled as she said, 'Your papa planted a root of those in my little garden the first summer I was here.'
'Then I am sure you will like to have them at the Pleasance, mamma.'
'My dear child,'-she paused, while Henrietta started, and gazed upon her, frightened at the manner-'you must not build upon our favourite old plan; you must prepare-'
'O but, mamma, you are better! You are so much better than two days ago; and these clear days do you so much good; and it is all so bright.'
'Thanks to Him Who has made it bright!' said her mother, taking her hand. 'But I fear, my own dearest, that it will seem far otherwise to you. I want you to make up your mind-'
Henrietta broke vehemently upon the feeble accents. 'Mamma! mamma! you must not speak so! It is the worst thing people can do to think despondingly of themselves. Aunt Geoffrey, do tell her so!'
'Despondingly! my child; you little know what the thought is to me!'
The words were almost whispered, and Henrietta scarcely marked them.
'No, no, you must not! It is too cruel to me,-I can't bear it!' she cried; the tears in her eyes, and a violence of agitation about her, which her mother, feeble as she was, could not attempt to contend with. She rested her head on her cushions, and silently and mournfully followed with her eyes the hasty trembling movements of her daughter, who continued to arrange the things on the table, and make desperate attempts to regain her composure; but completely failing, caught up her bonnet, and hurried out of the room.
'Poor dear child,' said Mrs. Frederick Langford, 'I wish she was more prepared. Beatrice, the comforting her is the dearest and saddest task I leave you. Fred, poor fellow, is prepared, and will bear up like a man; but it will come fearfully upon her. And Henrietta and I have been more like sisters than mother and daughter. If she would only bear to hear me-but no, if I were to be overcome while speaking to her, it might give her pain in the recollection. Beatrice, you must tell her all I would say.'
'If I could!'
'You must tell her, Beatrice, that I was as undisciplined as she is now. Tell her how I have come to rejoice in the great affliction of my life: how little I knew how to bear it when Frederick was taken from me and his children, in the prime of his health and strength. You remember how crushed to the ground I was, and how it was said that my life was saved chiefly by the calmness that came with the full belief that I was dying. And O! how my spirit rebelled when I found myself recovering! Do you remember the first day I went to Church to return thanks?'
'It was after we were gone home.'
'Ah! yes. I had put it off longer than I ought, because I felt so utterly unable to join in the service. The sickness of heart that came with those verses of thanksgiving! All I could do was to pray to be forgiven for not being able to follow them. Now I can own with all my heart the mercy that would not grant my blind wish for death. My treasure was indeed in heaven, but O! it was not the treasure that was meant. I was forgetting my mother, and so selfish and untamed was I, that I was almost forgetting my poor babies! Yes, tell her this, Beatrice, and tell her that, if duties and happiness sprang up all around me, forlorn and desolate as I thought myself, so much the more will they for her; and 'at evening time there shall be light.' Tell her that I look to her for guiding and influencing Fred. She must never let a week pass without writing to him, and she must have the honoured office of waiting on the old age of her grandfather and grandmother. I think she will be a comfort to them, do not you? They are fond of her, and she seems to suit them.'
'Yes, I have little doubt that she will be everything to them. I have especially noted her ways with Mrs. Langford, they are so exactly what I have tried to teach Beatrice.'
'Dear little Busy Bee! I am glad she is com- ing; but in case I should not see her, give her her godmother's love, and tell her that she and Henrietta must be what their mammas have been to each other; and that I trust that after thirty-five years' friendship, they will still have as much confidence in one another as I have in you, my own dear Beatrice. I have written her name in one of these books,' she added after a short interval, touching some which were always close to her. 'And, Beatrice, one thing more I had to say,' she proceeded, taking up a Bible, and finding out a place in it. 'Geoffrey has always been a happy prosperous man, as he well deserves; but if ever trouble should come to him in his turn, then show him this.' She pointed out the verse, 'Be as a father to the fatherless, and instead of a husband to their mother; so shalt thou be as the son of the Most High, and He shall love thee more than thy mother doth.' 'Show him that, and tell him it is his sister Mary's last blessing.'
CHAPTER XVIII.
ON Thursday morning, Henrietta began to awake from her sound night's rest. Was it a dream that she saw a head between her and the window? She thought it was, and turned to sleep again; but at her movement the head turned, the figure advanced, and Mrs. Geoffrey Langford stood over her.
Henrietta opened her eyes, and gazed upon her without saying a word for some moments; then, as her senses awakened, she half sprung up. 'How is mamma? Does she want me? Why?' Her aunt made an effort to speak, but it seemed beyond her power.
'O, aunt, aunt!' cried she, 'what is the matter? What has happened? Speak to me!'
'Henrietta,' said her aunt, in a low, calm, but hoarse tone, 'she bade you bear up for your brother's sake.'
'But-but-' said Henrietta, breathlessly; 'and she-'
'My dear child, she is at rest.'
Henrietta laid her head back, as if completely stunned, and unable to realise what she had heard.
'Tell me,' she said, after a few moments.
Her aunt knelt by her and steadily, without a tear, began to speak. 'It was at half-past twelve; she had been asleep some little time very quietly. I was just going to lie down on the sofa, when I thought her face looked different, and stood watching. She woke, said she felt oppressed, and asked me to raise her pillows. While she was leaning against my arm, there was a spasm, a shiver, and she was gone! Yes, we must only think of her as in perfect peace!'
Henrietta lay motionless for some moments, then at last broke out with a sort of anger, 'O, why did you not call me?'
'There was not one instant, my dear, and I could not ring, for fear of disturbing Fred. I could not call any one till it was too late.'
'O, why was I not there? I would-I would-she must have heard me. I would not have let her go. O, mamma!' cried Henrietta, almost unconscious of what she said, and bursting into a transport of ungovernable grief; sobbing violently and uttering wild incoherent exclamations. Her aunt tried in vain to soothe her by kind words, but all she said seemed only to add impulse to the torrent; and at last she found herself obliged to wait till the violence of the passion had in some degree exhausted itself; and young, strong, and undisciplined as poor Henrietta was, this was not quickly. At last, however, the sobs grew less loud, and the exclamations less vehement. Aunt Geoffrey thought she could be heard, leant down over her, kissed her, and said, 'Now we must pray that we may fulfil her last desire; bear it patiently, and try to help your brother.'
'Fred, O poor Fred!' and she seemed on the point of another burst of lamentation, but her aunt went on speaking-'I must go to him; he has yet to hear it, and you had better come to him as soon as you are dressed.'
'O aunt; I could not bear to see him. It will kill him, I know it will! O no, no, I cannot, can- not see Fred! O,
