stice and a mercy more than
human; you whom God made His instrument to bring me through
much sorrow unto repentance; and you through whose means He
brought me back to Himself, listen to me, and hearken to my
dying words. Mrs. Middleton, you had a child, and you lost
her; my hand, unwittingly, unknowingly (so help me God! as I
speak the truth)--_my_ hand was the instrument of her death;
it was lifted up in anger but not in malice, and that anger
has been visited upon me by a fearful punishment, which, like
the mark which was set on Cain's brow, has followed me all my
days since, and has brought me to an early grave. Can you
forgive me? Oh yes, by that hand which I grasp--by these tears
which fall on my brow, and which wash away that fiery mark
which has branded _it so long_, you do forgive me--you say of
me what our Saviour said of his murderers, 'God forgive her,
she knew not what she did.' And now," she continued after a
pause, during which there was no sound in that room but
stifled sobs, "and now let me take a solemn leave of you all;
let me ask for your prayers, for my end is at hand."

Mrs. Tracy knelt by Ellen's bed-side, and said, in hardly
articulate tones, "Pray for us when you are in Heaven."

"God bless you," answered Ellen, faintly, and closed her eyes.
After an instant she opened them again, and turning to Mr.
Lacy, she said, in a voice of the deepest emotion, "Oh, Mr.
Lacy, is it not merciful that death has been so sent to me as
to allow me time to rise up on my knees, and to cry, 'Lord
have mercy upon me?'" She was seized with a sudden faintness,
and sunk back on the bed exhausted.

All withdrew in silence except Mrs. Middleton, who, with
clasped hands and streaming eyes, kept watch by the pale
sufferer as she slept. She hardly realised to herself the
truth of what Ellen had said; she could form but one idea,
feel but one conviction--this cherished, this idolised being,
was to die. Death had done its work with all she loved; she
had before borne up against grief; now, for the first time,
she resigned herself; out of the deep she called upon God, and
in the horror, in the pity, in the unconquerable tenderness
which vaguely filled her bewildered soul, she learnt "to cease
from man and turn to God." She dared not _think_, and so she
only prayed.

When Edward returned that day, he found his wife weaker than
ever, but calmer still than she had yet been. She received him
with a smile which pierced thro