she wipes away the tears, and commends herself to Him who is
strength to the weak and comfort to the sorrowing.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE VISION.

It was fortunate for Gertrude that the vacation at Mr. W.'s school was
approaching, when she would be more at leisure to attend to her
multiplied cares. She considered herself favoured in obtaining the
services of Jane, who consented to come and help Miss Gertrude. She did
not, she said, exactly like living out, but couldn't refuse a young lady
who had been so good to them in times past. Gertrude had feared that,
with Nan Grant sick in the house, Mrs. Miller would not be able to give
up her eldest daughter; but Mary, a second girl, having returned home
unexpectedly, one of them could be spared. Under Gertrude's tuition,
Jane was able to relieve Mrs. Sullivan of her household duties, and to
leave Gertrude at liberty to visit Nan, whose fever rendered her claim
for aid the most imperative. In Gertrude's still vivid recollection of
her former sufferings under Nan there was no bitterness, no revenge. If
she remembered the past, it was only to pity and forgive her
persecutor.

Therefore, night after night found her watching by the bedside of the
sick woman, who, still delirious, had entirely lost the dread she had at
first seemed to feel at her presence. Nan talked much of little
Gerty--sometimes in a way that led Gertrude to believe herself
recognised, but more frequently as if the child were supposed to be
absent; and it was not until a long time after that Gertrude was led to
adopt the correct supposition, which was, that she had been mistaken for
her mother, whom she much resembled, and whom, though tended in her last
sickness by Nan herself, the fevered and conscience-stricken sufferer
believed had come back to claim her child at her hands. It was only the
continued assurances of good-will on Gertrude's part, and her unwearied
efforts to soothe and comfort her, that finally led Nan to the belief
that the injured mother had found her child in safety, and was ignorant
of the wrongs and unkindness she had endured.

One night--it was the last of Nan's life--Gertrude, who had scarcely
left her during the day, and was still watching, heard her own name
mingled with those of others in a few rapid sentences. She listened
intently, for she was always in hopes, during these ravings, to gain
some information concerning her own early life. Her name was not
repeated, however, and