nd let her rest and recover herself. The
child won their hearts at once. It was clean, and healthy, and good to
look at; and if Lettice had known that it was her own little niece she
could not have taken to it more kindly. Perhaps, indeed, she would not
have taken to it at all.

Lettice's visit had greatly excited Mrs. Bundlecombe, who had for some
time past been in that precarious state in which any excitement, however
slight, is dangerous. She was completely happy, because she had jumped
to the conclusion that Lettice would henceforth do for Alan all that she
herself would have done if she had been able, but which it was now
impossible for her to do. And then it was as though the feeble vitality
which remained to her had begun to ebb away from the moment when her
need for keeping it had disappeared.

In the early morning, Lettice was roused from her sleep by the
restlessness of her companion, and she sat up and looked at her.

"Dearie," said the old woman, in a whisper, "my time is come."

"No, no!" said Lettice, standing by her side. "Let me raise you a little
on the pillow; you will feel better presently."

"Yes--better--in heaven! You will take care of my Alan?"

"Oh yes, dear!"

"And love him?"

"And love him."

"Thank God for that. It will be the saving of him. Call Martha, my
dear!"

Lettice went and roused Mrs. Chigwin, who came and kissed her friend.
Then, with a last effort, Aunt Bessy raised her head, and whispered,

"'Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!'"

The watchers scarcely heard the words; but when she sank back upon her
pillow, and smiled as though she had found the peace which passes
understandings they knew that she had gone.

Lettice stayed on at Birchmead until she had seen Alan's aunt carried to
the churchyard, and laid under the shadow of the great yew trees.

Aunt Bessy's death changed her plans. It was no longer necessary for
Alan to undertake so long a journey, and in his weak condition it might
be better that he should not attempt it. But what was to be done? She
had promised Aunt Bessy to "take care of him." Haw could she do it? How
do it, at least, without outraging the feelings of her brother and her
friends? She loved Sydney, although she had long ago ceased to be
greatly in sympathy with him, and she had looked forward to the day when
she could make friends with his wife and--by and by--interest herself in
their children. She knew that Sydney would be ag