Colonel Lennox gazed upon the countenance of his mother. Again and again
he pressed her inanimate hands to his lips, and bedewed them with his
tears, as about to tear himself from her for ever. At that moment she
opened her eyes, and regarded him with a look of intelligence, which
spoke at once to his heart. He felt that he was seen and known. Her look
was long and fondly fixed upon his face; then turned to Mary with an
expression so deep and earnest that both felt the instantaneous appeal.
The veil seemed to drop from their hearts; one glance sufficed to tell
that both were fondly, truly loved; and as Colonel Lennox received
Mary's almost fainting form in his arms, he knelt by his mother, and
implored her blessing on her children. A smile of angelic brightness
beamed upon her face as she extended her hand towards them, and her lips
moved as in prayer, though no sound escaped them. One long and lingering
look was given to those so dear even in death. She then raised her eyes
to heaven, and the spirit sought its native skies!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"Cette liaison n'est ni passion ni amitie pure:
elle fait une classe a part." --LA BRUYERE

IT was long before Mary could believe in the reality of what had passed.
It appeared to her as a beautiful yet awful dream. Could it be that she
had plighted her faith by the bed of death; that the last look of her
departed friend had hallowed the vow now registered in heaven; that
Charles Lennox had claimed her as his own, even in the agony of tearing
himself from all he loved; and that she had only felt how dear she was
to him at the very moment when she had parted from him, perhaps for
ever? But Mary strove to banish these overwhelming thoughts from her
mind, as she devoted herself to the performance of the last duties to
her departed friend. These paid, she again returned to Beech Park.

Lady Emily had been a daily visitor at Rose Hall during Mrs. Lennox's
illness, and had taken a lively interest in the situation of the family;
but, notwithstanding, it was some time before Mary could so far subdue
her feelings as to speak with composure of what had passed. She felt,
too, how impossible it was by words to convey to her any idea of that
excitement of mind, where a whole life of ordinary feeling seems
concentrated in one sudden but ineffable emotion. All that had passed
might be imagined, but could not be told; and she shrank from the task
of portraying those deep and sac