a few days, the illness, from which his wife had been suffering for some
time, had taken a dangerous turn, rendering an operation necessary; and
the letter was sent to prepare them for a possible fatal result.

"It gives her a chance, and that is all the doctors will say. _She_
says it will be all right whichever way it turns. God bless you all.
Emily will tell you more."

"Harry," said Graeme, as he laid down the letter. "I must go to Janet."

"It would be a comfort to her if you could," said Harry, gravely.

"And to me," said Graeme. "I shall go early to-morrow."

There was not much more said about it. There was a little discussion
about the trains, and the best way to take, and then Harry went away.
Rose had not spoken a word while he was there, but the moment the door
closed after him, she said, softly,--

"Harry does not think that I am going; but, dear, you promised that,
whatever happened, we should keep together. And, Graeme, the quiet time
has been to prepare you for this; and we are sure it will all be right,
as Janet says. You will let me go with you, Graeme?" she pleaded; "you
will never go and leave me here?"

So whatever Harry thought, Graeme could do nothing but yield; and the
next morning the sisters were speeding southward, with fear in their
hearts, but with peace and hope in them, also; for they knew, and they
said to one another many times that day, that the words of their dear
old friend would come true, and that in whatever way the trouble that
had fallen on her might end, it would be for her all well.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

September was nearly over; there were tokens of the coming Autumn on the
hills and valleys of Merleville, but the day was like a day in the prime
of summer, and the air that came in through the open windows of the
south room fell on Mrs Snow's pale cheeks as mild and balmy as a breeze
of June. The wood-covered hills were unfaded still, and beautiful,
though here and there a crimson banner waved, or a pillar of gold rose
up amid the greenness. Over among the valleys, were sudden, shifting
sparkles from half-hidden brooks, and the pond gleamed in the sunshine
without a cloud to dim its brightness. In the broken fields that sloped
towards it, and in the narrow meadows that skirted that part of the
Merle river which could be seen, there were tokens of life and busy
labour--dark stretches of newly-turned mould alternating with the green
of the pastures, or the