er had strayed in
pursuit of him.

"I wondered," said Jane, her honest eyes searching his countenance.
"And it's so long since you sent a word; I should have written again
this afternoon."

"I've been abominably neglectful," he replied, "and time goes so
quickly."

"There's something strange in your look," said the girl. "What is it, I
wonder? You've altered in some way I don't know how."

"Think so? but never mind me; tell me about mother."

They stood among the garden scents, amid the flowers, which told of
parting summer, and conversed with voices softened by tender
solicitude. Jane was above all anxious that her brother's visit should
seem spontaneous, and Will promised not to hint at the news she had
sent him. They entered the house together. Mrs. Warburton, after her
usual morning occupations, had lain down on the couch in the parlour,
and fallen asleep; as soon as he beheld her face, Will understood his
sister's fears, White, motionless, beautiful in its absolute calm, the
visage might have been that of the dead; after gazing for a moment,
both, on the same impulse, put forth a hand to touch the unconscious
form. The eyelids rose a look of confused trouble darkened the features
then the lips relaxed in a happy smile.

"Will--and you find me asleep?--I appeal to Jane; she will tell you
it's only an accident. Did you ever before see me asleep like this,
Jane?"

At once she rose, and moved about, and strove to be herself; but the
effort it cost her was too obvious; presently she had to sit down, with
tremulous limbs, and Will noticed that her forehead was moist.

Not till evening did he find it possible to lead the conversation to
the subject of her health. Jane had purposely left them alone. Her son
having said that he feared she was not so well as usual, Mrs. Warburton
quietly admitted that she had recently consulted her doctor.

"I am not young, Will, you know. Sixty-five next birthday."

"But you don't call that old!" exclaimed her son.

"Yes, it's old for one of my family, dear, None of us, that I know of,
lived to be much more than sixty, and most died long before. Don't let
us wear melancholy faces," she added, with that winning smile which had
ever been the blessing of all about her. "You and I, dear, are too
sensible, I hope, to complain or be frightened because life must have
an end. When my time comes, I trust to my children not to make me
unhappy by forgetting what I have always tried to te