life consist? Why do
I ask? Have I not cause to think that the hour is hasting but too fast
when the veil must be rent for me? Do I not know the Grand Mystery is
likely to burst prematurely on me? Great Spirit, in whose goodness I
confide, whom, as my Father, I have petitioned night and morning from
early infancy, help the weak creation of Thy hands! Sustain me through
the ordeal I dread and must undergo! Give me strength! Give me patience!
Give me--oh, _give me_ FAITH!"

She fell back on her pillow. Mrs. Pryor found means to steal quietly
from the room. She re-entered it soon after, apparently as composed as
if she had really not overheard this strange soliloquy.

The next day several callers came. It had become known that Miss
Helstone was worse. Mr. Hall and his sister Margaret arrived. Both,
after they had been in the sickroom, quitted it in tears; they had found
the patient more altered than they expected. Hortense Moore came.
Caroline seemed stimulated by her presence. She assured her, smiling,
she was not dangerously ill; she talked to her in a low voice, but
cheerfully. During her stay, excitement kept up the flush of her
complexion; she looked better.

"How is Mr. Robert?" asked Mrs. Pryor, as Hortense was preparing to take
leave.

"He was very well when he left."

"Left! Is he gone from home?"

It was then explained that some police intelligence about the rioters of
whom he was in pursuit had, that morning, called him away to Birmingham,
and probably a fortnight might elapse ere he returned.

"He is not aware that Miss Helstone is very ill?"

"Oh no! He thought, like me, that she had only a bad cold."

After this visit, Mrs. Pryor took care not to approach Caroline's couch
for above an hour. She heard her weep, and dared not look on her tears.

As evening closed in, she brought her some tea. Caroline, opening her
eyes from a moment's slumber, viewed her nurse with an unrecognizing
glance.

"I smelt the honeysuckles in the glen this summer morning," she said,
"as I stood at the counting-house window."

Strange words like these from pallid lips pierce a loving listener's
heart more poignantly than steel. They sound romantic, perhaps, in
books; in real life they are harrowing.

"My darling, do you know me?" said Mrs. Pryor.

"I went in to call Robert to breakfast. I have been with him in the
garden. He asked me to go. A heavy dew has refreshed the flowers. The
peaches are ripening."

"My darli