great relief, Ellen stared up at me and did not
answer; she had not understood.

"He is going to sleep at Rosebower tonight,"
she said; "mamma told Jane to make
up a bed for him."

Alas! what did I care for that information.
The passing curiosity with which I had looked at
the dreary untenanted cottage was over, and I
was again desolate and heart stricken. I could
not sleep that night; I had no rest, no peace,
the next day, and when evening came round I
left my William playing with Ellen in the garden,
and stole out unperceived. A lane at the
back of the village led to my father's house. It
was lonely, and along that lane I swiftly stole in
the grey glooming; I was doing a wrong thing
and I knew it, But the longing wish to see
my stepmother again was stronger than
conscience or duty. I reached the house
unperceived, and so bided my opportunity that I crept
up the staircase and entered her room unheard.
My father was with the doctor below, the nurse,
exhausted by her vigil, was sleeping in her chair
at the foot of the bed. A night lamp burned
on the table and lit the room very dimly. I
remember how the tall mirror spread like a sheet
of pale gleaming light before me, how the white
curtains looked grey and dim as they fell around
the bed where my mother had died thirteen
years before this, and where my second mother,
so tender and so dear, was soon to breathe her
last. But I did not fear that then. I could
not imagine anything like it. I came not for a
last parting on this side of the grave; but
because absence seemed intolerable and love
had drawn me. My great fear was that I
should startle her; also that I should hear
reproof from those kind lips that were ever so
reluctant to censure my childish misdoings. So
my first words were:

"Dear mamma, pray don't scold me." She
started, she motioned me away with her poor
trembling hand.

"Go, go," she said in a voice so altered
that I scarcely knew it: "don't come near
me."

I thought her angry, and did not dare to
approach, but neither could I bear to go at
once.

"Oh, go, my darling," she entreated, "go;"
then, with sudden fear she added, looking
round, "Where is William?"

I replied that I had left the child at Mrs.
Gibson's. This seemed to relieve her. She
looked at me, and altered though she was, I
knew the tender look of her eyes again.

"I was true to you," she said, "be true to the
boy, be true to him after I am gone, and now
go—go if you love me, Anne."

I obeyed her, but as I stood on the threshold
of the door, I stopped to look at her and say
softly,

"I will be true to William, I will be true."
I said it meaning it, and yet not knowing how
deep lay the meaning of my own words, nor
how far into future years my promise extended.
My stepmother smiled very sweetly as she heard
me, and I went away rejoicing that I had seen
her, bearing that smile with me along the lonely
lane, till I came back to Mrs. Gibson's cottage,
and found William, who had not missed me, still
playing with Ellen. I took him in my arms
and kissed him.

"I will be true to you, my pet," I said,
"won't I, that's all!" I said it, I meant it; but
little did I know that my eyes had seen their
last of William's mother. It was William
Gibson who told me of my stepmother's death.
In what words he put the news, or how I bore
them, I do not remember. I only remember
that as he looked down into my face and held
my hands in his, there was a great pity in his
deep grey eyes. William Gibson had a grave
kind face for one so young. I saw that even
then; but just as I saw the little garden in
which I stood, and the red sunlight flashing
back from the broken windows of Rosebower,
whilst a stormy sky brooded over its low roof.
What passed on that first dreary day I scarcely
know now; all is swallowed up in the sense of
a great desolation, but the next morning I
remembered all.

I felt unutterably wretched. I wished to see
no one, to speak to no one. I stole away from
Mrs. Gibson who wanted to comfort me, from
Ellen who teased me, from my poor little
William who was playing and laughing though his
mother lay pale and dead in her room, and not
knowing where to hide, I crept round to
Rosebower. The little garden-gate stood open. I
passed in and stole up to the cottage; the door
was open too, and pushing back the drooping
clematis, I entered a low dark parlour.
Beyond the window I saw and heard the sounding
sea rolling up the beach with great heavy
waves. It was moaning and lamenting, and its
sad voice went to my very heart. I sank down
on my knees, and leaning my head on the window-
sill, I cried bitterly.

"Hush! hush!" said William Gibson's
grave tones behind me, "pray don't."

"I must, oh I must!" I replied, looking
round at him through my tears, "I must cry
because she is dead."

William Gibson, so shy, so nervous and
awkward in everyday life, ceased to be so when
anything moved him. He now gave me a clear
resolute look; he took my hand and made me
rise; he led me out of that dull dark room into
the open air, and walking with me by the
shore, with my hand still in his, he admonished
me gently. He was my elder by some years. He
was my superior in a hundred ways. He was
good and he was strong, and goodness and
strength have a rare power. He did not charm
my grief away, for who could have done that,
child though I was still, but he soothed the
fever of the wound it was past his skill to cure.
Ah, how gently, how tenderly, and how wisely,
too, for a man so young, he dealt with me on
that sad morning, and how my whole heart
yearned towards him. I longed to tell him
what I had said to his sister, and to ask him to
forgive me.