ummer evening. No one seemed to remark the gradual progress; but she was
fully conscious of it herself. The last time that Frank was at home from
college before her death, she knew that she should never see him again;
and when he gaily left the house, with a cheerfulness, which was partly
assumed, she dragged herself with languid steps into a room at the front
of the house, from which she could watch him down the long, straggling
little street, that led to the inn from which the coach started. As he
went along, he turned to look back at his home; and there he saw his
mother's white figure gazing after him. He could not see her wistful eyes,
but he made her poor heart give a leap of joy by turning round and running
back for one more kiss and one more blessing.

When he next came home, it was at the sudden summons of her death.

His father was as one distracted. He could not speak of the lost angel
without sudden bursts of tears, and oftentimes of self-upbraiding, which
disturbed the calm, still, holy ideas, which Frank liked to associate with
her. He ceased speaking to him, therefore, about their mutual loss; and it
was a certain kind of relief to both when he did so; but he longed for
some one to whom he might talk of his mother, with the quiet reverence of
intense and trustful affection. He thought of Maggie, of whom he had
seen but little of late; for when he had been at Combehurst, she had
felt that Mrs. Buxton required her presence less, and had remained more at
home. Possibly Mrs. Buxton regretted this; but she never said anything.
She, far-looking, as one who was near death, foresaw that, probably, if
Maggie and her son met often in her sick-room, feelings might arise which
would militate against her husband's hopes and plans, and which, therefore,
she ought not to allow to spring up. But she had been unable to refrain
from expressing her gratitude to Maggie for many hours of tranquil
happiness, and had unconsciously dropped many sentences which made Frank
feel, that, in the little brown mouse of former years, he was likely to
meet with one who could tell him much of the inner history of his mother in
her last days, and to whom he could speak of her without calling out the
passionate sorrow which was so little in unison with her memory.

Accordingly, one afternoon, late in the autumn, he rode up to Mrs.
Browne's. The air on the heights was so still that nothing seemed to stir.
Now and then a yellow leaf came float