iss Lily, but me.'

But she was looking earnestly, and, with a wrapt smile, only said--

'Oh!'

She thought she saw her, I believe.

Are these always illusions? Or is it only that, as the twilight deepens,
and the shapes of earth melt into night, the stars of heaven,
changeless and serene, reveal themselves, and shine out to the darkened
eyes of mortals?

As Aunt Becky sat that night in the drawing-room with her niece, a maid,
with a whisper, placed a little note in Miss Gertrude's hand. There was
a little pause.

'Oh! aunt--oh!' and she looked so terrified. 'Oh! aunt,' and she threw
her arms round her aunt's neck, and began crying wildly. 'Poor Lily's
gone--there's the note.'

Then arose the wild wailing of unavailing grief, and sobs, mixed with
early recollections of childhood, and all poor Lily's sweet traits
poured out.

Old Aunt Rebecca took the note. Her stoicism was the point on which she
piqued herself most. She looked very pale, and she told her niece to be
composed; for Aunt Becky had a theory that feelings ought to be
commanded, and that it only needed effort and resolution. So she read
the note, holding her head very high, but the muscles of her face were
quivering.

'Oh! Gertrude, if ever there was an angel--and the poor desolate old
man----'

The theory broke down, and old Aunt Rebecca cried and sat down, and
cried heartily, and went and put her thin arms round her niece, and
kissed her, and cried, and cried, and kissed her again.

'She was such--such a darling--oh! Gertrude dear, we must never quarrel
any more.'

Death had come so near, and all things less than itself were rebuked in
that sublime presence; and Lily Walsingham was gone; and she who was so
lately their gay companion, all at once so awfully angelic in the
unearthly light of death.

'Who'd ha' thought it was so near, Ma'am,' said the maid; 'the poor
little thing! Though to be sure, Ma'am, a winding sheet came three times
in the candle last night, and I turns it round and picks it off, that
way, with my nail, unknownst to Mrs. Heany, for fear she'd be frettin'
about the little boy that's lyin' at home in the small-pox; and indeed I
thought 'twas for him it was; but man proposes, and God disposes--and
death forgets none, the Lord be praised--and everyone has their hour,
old and young, Ma'am; and as I was sayin', they had no notion or
expectation up at the Elms, Ma'am, she was so bad, the heavens be her
bed this night. 'Twas a