ened, for before I could get to her she had fainted; and she was
very ill from that moment.'

'And it was the next day she died!' said Guy, looking up, after a long
silence. 'Did she--could she take any notice of me?'

'No, sir; she lived but half an hour, or hardly that, after you were
born.' I told her it was a son; but she was not able to hear or mind me,
and sank away, fainting like. I fancied I heard her say something like
"Mr. Morville," but I don't know; and her breath was very soon gone.
Poor dear!' added Mrs. Lavers, wiping away her tears. 'I grieved for her
as if she had been my own child; but then I thought of her waking up to
hear he was dead. I little thought then, Sir Guy, that I should ever see
you stand there,--strong and well grown. I almost thought you were dead
already when I sent for Mr. Harrison to baptize you.'

'Was it you that did so?' said Guy, his face, mournful before, lighting
up in a sudden beam of gratitude. 'Then I have to thank you for more
than all the world besides.'

'Law, sir!' said Mrs. Lavers, smiling, and looking pleased, though as
if but half entering into his meaning. 'Yes, it was in that very china
bowl; I have kept it choice ever since, and never let it be used for
anything. I thought it was making very bold, but the doctor and all
thought you could not live, and Mr. Harrison might judge. I was very
glad just before he came that Mr. Markham came from Redclyffe. He had
not been able to leave poor Sir Guy before.'

Guy soon after set out on his homeward ride. His yearning to hear of
his mother had been satisfied; but though he could still love the fair,
sweet vision summoned up by her name, he was less disposed to feel that
it had been hard upon him that she died. It was not Amy. In spite of his
tender compassion and affection, he knew that he had not lost a Verena
in her. None could occupy that place save Amy; and his mind,
from custom, reverted to Amy as still his own, thrilled like a
freshly-touched wound, and tried to realize the solace that even yet she
might be praying for him.

It was dreariness and despondency by day, and he struggled with it by
energy and occupation; but it was something even worse in the evening,
in the dark, solitary library, where the very size of the room gave
an additional sense of loneliness; and in the silence he could hear,
through the closed shutters, the distant plash and surge of the tide,--a
sound, of which, in former years, he had neve