t!'

'And don't you tell us he is a shining light now?' said Mary, among the
tears that really almost seemed to be a relief, as if her sister
herself had shed them; and as she knelt down, Ethel laid her head on
her shoulder, and spoke more calmly.

'He is,' she said, 'and I ought to be thankful for it! I think I am
generally--but now--it makes it the more piteous--the hopes--the
spirit--the determination--all to be quenched, and so quenched--and to
have nothing--nothing to do for him.

'But, Ethel, papa says your messages do him more good than anything;
and papa will let you go and see him, and that will comfort him.'

Ethel's lips gave a strange sort of smile; she thought it was at simple
Mary's trust in her power, but it would hardly have been there but for
the species of hope thus excited, and the sense of sympathy. Mary was
not one to place any misconstruction on what had passed; she well knew
that Leonard had almost taken a brother's place in Ethel's heart, and
she prized him at the rate of her sister's esteem. Perhaps her
prominent thought was how cruel were those who fancied that Ethel's
lofty faith was unfeeling, and how very good Leonard must be to be thus
mourned. At any rate, she was an excellent comforter, in the sympathy
that was neither too acute nor too obtuse; and purely to oblige her,
Ethel for the first time submitted to her favourite panacea of hair
brushing, and found that in very truth those soft and steady
manipulations were almost mesmeric in soothing away the hard oppressive
excitement, and bringing on a gentle and slumberous resignation.

The sisters were early astir next morning, to inflict on their father a
cup of cocoa, which he rebelled against, but swallowed, and to receive
his last orders, chiefly consisting of messages to Tom about taking the
petition to be approved of by Dr. Spencer and others, and then having
it properly drawn out. Mary asked if women might sign it, and was
answered with an impatient 'Pshaw!'

'But ladies do have petitions of their own,' said Mary, with some
diffidence. 'Could not we have one?'

His lips were compressed for another 'Pshaw,' when he bethought
himself. 'Well, I don't know--the more the better. Only it won't do
for you to set it going. Flora must be the woman for that.'

'Oh, then,' cried Mary, eagerly, 'might not I walk over to breakfast at
the Grange, and talk to Flora? Ethel, you would not mind going to Ave
instead? Or will you go to F