nd perceiving at the first glance
that Forster's situation debarred all chance of recovery, took upon himself
with willingness the charge of the letter, and promised to receive Amber
into his house until it was convenient that she should be removed. It was
dark when Lord Aveleyn, with melancholy foreboding, took his last farewell;
for, ere the sun had risen again, the spirit of Edward Forster had regained
its liberty, and soared to the empyrean, while the deserted Amber wept and
prayed.

Edward Forster had not concealed from her the precarious tenure of his
existence, and since their return from London had made her fully acquainted
with all the particulars connected with her own history. The last few
weeks, every interval of suffering had been devoted by him to enforce those
principles which he ever had inculcated, and to prepare for the event which
had now taken place.

Amber was kneeling by the side of the bed; she had been there so long that
she was not aware that it was broad day. Her face, laid upon her hands, was
completely hidden by her luxuriant hair, which had escaped from the
confinement of the comb, when the door of the chamber of death was softly
opened. Amber, who either did not hear the noise or thought it was the
daughter of Robertson, who lived as servant in the cottage, raised not her
head. The steps continued to approach, then the sound ceased, and Amber
felt the arms of some one encircling her waist to raise her from her
kneeling posture. She lifted up her head, and dividing the hair from her
forehead, that she might see who it was, perceived that it was young
Aveleyn who was hanging over her.

"My poor little girl!" said he in a tone of commiseration.

"Oh! William Aveleyn," cried Amber, bursting into a paroxysm of tears, as
she was folded in his arms.

The sorrow of youth is sympathetic, and William Aveleyn, although seventeen
years old, and fast advancing to manhood, did not disdain to mingle his
tears with those of his former playmate. It was some time before he could
persuade Amber, who clung to him in her grief, to any degree of serenity.

"Amber dear, you must come to us at the Hall; this is no place for you
now."

"And why not, William? Why should I leave so soon? I'm not afraid of being
here, or lying by his side alone: I've seen other people die. I saw Mrs
Beazely die--I saw poor 'Faithful' die; and now, they _all_ are dead,"
said Amber, bursting into tears, and burying her face in Wi