ace. We shall never like
another so well; it would grieve me to leave it."

"We must take things as they come," said Mrs. Fairchild, going on with
her history. "Your uncle was abroad several years, and was enabled to
make a very good fortune. Whilst you were a very little baby, Lucy, he
returned to England, and then purchased that place where your
grandmamma now lives, a place known by the name of The Grove, between
Reading and London, on the banks of the Thames. His wife had died
abroad, and several children also in infancy. He brought with him two
little girls, of five and six years of age, Emily and Ellen; and they
were lovely little creatures then," said Mrs. Fairchild; "their very
paleness making them only look the more lovely. When I saw that sweet
little Emily, I resolved, that if ever I had another girl, it should be
an Emily.

"My nieces lost their father only one year after they came to England,
and then their grandmother settled herself quite down to give all her
attention to them; and truly, from the extreme delicacy of their
health, they needed all the care that she could give them. From the
very earliest period of their lives they were invariably gentle,
humble, and attentive to the comfort of every person who came near to
them."

"Were not they like Miss Darwell?" said Henry, who had dropped his
book, and was listening with all his attention.

"I think they were, Henry," replied Mrs. Fairchild; "and their outward
circumstances were much alike--they were, like her, the daughters of a
rich man, and brought up very tenderly. It was about four years since,"
she continued, "that your lovely cousin Emily died of a rapid decline.
A little before her death, seeing her sister weeping bitterly, she
said, 'Do not cry, gentle sister, we shall not be parted long.' Ellen
never forgot those words, though it was not till some time afterwards
that she reminded your grandmamma of them."

"And do you think she will now die, mamma, and go to her Emily?" said
Lucy.

"I cannot say," replied Mrs. Fairchild; "but she has certainly been
gradually falling off ever since she lost her sister."

Mr. Fairchild wrote every day; his accounts from the first were bad;
they became worse and worse as to the hopes respecting the poor young
lady, and her grandmother's anxiety. At last a letter came to say that
she was dead, but had died in great peace.

The children cried very much, but more for their grandmother than for
their cou