proper to
consign you to her care, as you will see in my will, till you are of
age, and to recommend you to her protection afterwards. She is not
exactly the person, to whom I would have committed my Emily, but I had
no alternative, and I believe her to be upon the whole--a good kind of
woman. I need not recommend it to your prudence, my love, to endeavour
to conciliate her kindness; you will do this for his sake, who has often
wished to do so for yours.'

Emily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously
perform to the utmost of her ability. 'Alas!' added she, in a voice
interrupted by sighs, 'that will soon be all which remains for me; it
will be almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes.'

St. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, but
his spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She felt
that look at her heart. 'My dear father!' she exclaimed; and then,
checking herself, pressed his hand closer, and hid her face with
her handkerchief. Her tears were concealed, but St. Aubert heard her
convulsive sobs. His spirits returned. 'O my child!' said he, faintly,
'let my consolations be yours. I die in peace; for I know, that I
am about to return to the bosom of my Father, who will still be your
Father, when I am gone. Always trust in him, my love, and he will
support you in these moments, as he supports me.'

Emily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his
manner, and the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her
anguish. Yet, whenever she looked upon his emaciated countenance, and
saw the lines of death beginning to prevail over it--saw his sunk eyes,
still bent on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close, there was a
pang in her heart, such as defied expression, though it required filial
virtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt.

He desired once more to bless her; 'Where are you, my dear?' said he,
as he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window, that he
might not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his sight had
failed him. When he had given her his blessing, and it seemed to be the
last effort of expiring life, he sunk back on his pillow. She kissed
his forehead; the damps of death had settled there, and, forgetting her
fortitude for a moment, her tears mingled with them. St. Aubert lifted
up his eyes; the spirit of a father returned to them, but it quickly
vanished, and he spoke no more.