n Name! Some such conviction
of the hollowness of his own words, when he spoke of service to the
dead, smote upon Philip's heart, and stopped the flow of his words.

Fanny, conscious only of his praise, his thanks, and the tender
affection of his voice, stood still silent-her eyes downcast, her breast
heaving.

Philip resumed:

"And now, Fanny, my honoured sister, I would thank you for more, were it
possible, even than this. I shall owe to you not only name and fortune,
but happiness. It is from the rights to which you have assisted me, and
which will shortly be made clear, that I am able to demand a hand I have
so long coveted--the hand of one as dear to me as you are. In a word,
the time has, this day, been fixed, when I shall have a home to offer
to you and to this old man--when I can present to you a sister who will
prize you as I do: for I love you so dearly--I owe you so much--that
even that home would lose half its smiles if you were not there. Do you
understand me, Fanny? The sister I speak of will be my wife!"

The poor girl who heard this speech of most cruel tenderness did not
fall, or faint, or evince any outward emotion, except in a deadly
paleness. She seemed like one turned to stone. Her very breath forsook
her for some moments, and then came back with a long deep sigh. She laid
her hand lightly on his arm, and said calmly:

"Yes--I understand. We once saw a wedding. You are to be married--I
shall see yours!"

"You shall; and, later, perhaps, I may see your own."

"I have a brother. Ah! if I could but find him--younger than I
am--beautiful almost as you!"

"You will be happy," said Fanny, still calmly.

"I have long placed my hopes of happiness in such a union! Stay, where
are you going?"

"To pray for you," said Fanny, with a smile, in which there was
something of the old vacancy, as she walked gently from the room. Philip
followed her with moistened eyes. Her manner might have deceived one
more vain. He soon after quitted the house, and returned to town.

Three hours after, Sarah found Fanny stretched on the floor of her own
room--so still--so white--that, for some moments, the old woman thought
life was gone. She recovered, however, by degrees; and, after putting
her hands to her eyes, and muttering some moments, seemed much as usual,
except that she was more silent, and that her lips remained colourless,
and her hands cold like stone.

CHAPTER XX.

"Vec. Ye see what follows.