brought no blessing with it. I never could look upon these
broad lands as ours--Would that his child had lived--and then--But they
are all gone now--all gone!--Alas! what had we to do with courts, or
courts with us?--Our domestic comforts have been blighted--our hearth
left desolate--the children for whom you toiled, and hoped, and planned,
have been removed from us--nipped in the bud, or the first
blossoming!--And oh, Cecil! take the words of a dying woman to heart,
when she tells you, that you will go down childless to your grave, if
you do not absolve our beloved Constance from her promise to him whom
she can neither respect nor love. She will complete the contract, though
it should be her death-warrant, rather than let it be said a daughter of
the house of Cecil acted dishonourably--she will complete it,
Robert--she will complete it--and then die!"

Lady Cecil, overcome by emotion and exertion, fell back fainting and
exhausted on her pillow. Recovering herself, however, after a brief
pause she added, in a broken whispering voice, "Forgive me, my dear,
dear husband;--my mind is wandering--my thoughts are unconnected--but my
affection for you--for Constance--is strong in death. I mean not to pain
you, but to warn--for the sake of our only child--of the only thing that
remains to tell you of your wife. My breath trembles on my lips--there
is a mist before mine eyes--call her in, that my spirit may depart--may
ascend heavenward on the wings of prayer!--"

Sir Robert was moving towards the door, when her hand motioned him back.

"Promise--promise that you will never force her to wed that
man!--more--that you yourself will break the contract!"

"Truly, and solemnly do I swear, that I will never force her to
fulfil--nay, that I will never even urge her to its fulfilment."

The dying lady looked unsatisfied, and some unpronounced words agitated
her lips, as Constance entered unbidden, but most welcome. She knelt by
her mother's side, and took the hand so feebly but affectionately
extended towards her. The fearful change that had occurred during her
short absence was but too visible. The breath that touched her cheek was
cold as the morning mist. The sufferer would have folded her hands in
prayer, but the strength had departed before the spirit was gone.
Constance, seeing that the fine expression of life with which her
upturned eyes had glittered was gradually passing away, clasped her
mother's hands within her own: sud