he would be at once ready
to make good the deficiency in the will. Mr. Palmer seemed to think
that this would be better even than the making of a codicil in the
last moments of the lady's life; and, therefore, he and Captain
Aylmer were at rest on that subject.

During the greater part of the Saturday night both Clara and Captain
Aylmer remained with their aunt; and once when the morning was almost
there, and the last hour was near at hand, she had said a word or two
which both of them had understood, in which she implored her darling
Frederic to take a brother's care of Clara Amedroz. Even in that
moment Clara had repudiated the legacy, feeling sure in her heart
that Frederic Aylmer was aware what was the nature of the care which
he ought to owe, if he would consent to owe any care to her. He
promised his aunt that he would do as she desired him, and it was
impossible that Clara should then, aloud, repudiate the compact. But
she said nothing, merely allowing her hand to rest with his beneath
the thin, dry hand of the dying woman. To her aunt, however, when for
a moment they were alone together, she showed all possible affection,
with thanks and tears, and warm kisses, and prayers for forgiveness
as to all those matters in which she had offended. "My pretty
one;--my dear," said the old woman, raising her hand on to the head
of the crouching girl, who was hiding her moist eyes on the bed.
Never during her life had her aunt appeared to her in so loving
a mood as now, when she was leaving it. Then, with some eager
impassioned words, in which she pronounced her ideas of what should
be the religious duties of a woman, Mrs. Winterfield bade farewell
to her niece. After that, she had a longer interview with her nephew,
and then it seemed that all worldly cares were over with her.

The Sunday was passed in all that blankness of funeral grief which is
absolutely necessary on such occasions. It cannot be said that either
Clara or Captain Aylmer were stricken with any of that agony of woe
which is produced on us by the death of those whom we have loved so
well that we cannot bring ourselves to submit to part with them. They
were both truly sorry for their aunt, in the common parlance of the
world; but their sorrow was of that modified sort which does not numb
the heart, and make the surviving sufferer feel that there never can
be a remedy. Nevertheless, it demanded sad countenances, few words,
and those spoken hardly above a whi