and the fire was actually out. Mary was not
therefore surprised at Aunty's reply to her
inquiries.

"I am tolerably easy myself, my dear, but I
can't tell what has come over Jem; it seems to
me that somebody must have been giving him
drink, he staggered so when he crossed the
room half-an-hour ago; yet I hardly think
he would take it, he has such a dislike to
everything strong. What a thing it is that I
am lying here, unable to stir to see about it
myself!"

"We will see about it," said Mary, going to
poor Jem. " I neither think he would touch
drink, nor that any body would play such a
trick with him at such a time. No," she went
on, when she had felt his pulse and looked
well at his face, " it is not drink: it is illness."

"The fever," groaned the mother.

"I think so. Courage, Aunty! we will
nurse him well: and the house is wholesome
now, you know. You are through the fever:
and his chance is a better one than yours, the
house is so much more airy, and I have more
experience."

"But, Mary, you cannot go on for ever,
without sleep or rest, in this way. What is
to be done, I don't see."

"I do, Aunty. I am very well to-day. To-
morrow will take care of itself. I must get
Jem to bed; and if he soon seems to be
moaning and restless, you must mind it as
little as you can. It is very miserable, as you
have good reason to know; but—"

"I know something that you do not, I see,"
said Aunty. " A more patient creature than
my poor Jem does not live in Bleaburn, nor
anywhere else."

"What a good chance that gives him!"
observed Mary, " and what a blessing it is, for
himself and for you! I must go to my cousin
now presently; and I will send the doctor
to see Jem."

The poor fellow allowed himself to be
undressed; and let his head fall on his bolster,
as if it could not have kept up a minute
longer. He was fairly down in the fever.

CHAPTER V.

THAT evening, Mary felt more at leisure
and at rest than for weeks past. There was
nothing to be done for Mrs. Billiter but to
watch beside her: and the carpenter had had
his whispered orders in the street for the
coffins for the two little boys. The mother
had asked no questions, and had appeared to
be wandering too much to take notice of
anything passing before her eyes. Now she was
quiet, and Mary felt the relief. She had
refreshed herself (and she used to tell, in after
years, what such refreshments were worth)
with cold water, and a clean wrapper, and a
mutton-chop, sent hot from the Plough and
Harrow for the Good Lady (with some wine
which she kept for the convalescents), and
she was now sitting back in her chair beside
the open window, through which fell a yellow
glow of reflected sunshine from the opposite
heights. All was profoundly still. When she
had once satisfied her conscience that she
ought not to be plying her needle because
her eyes were strained for want of sleep, she
gave herself up to the enjoyment—for she
really was capable of enjoyment through
everything—of watching the opposite
precipice; how the shadow crept up it; and
how the sunny crest seemed to grow brighter;
and how the swallows darted past their holes,
and skimmed down the hollow once more
before night should come on. Struck, at last,
by the silence, she turned her head, and was
astonished at the change she saw. Her cousin
lay quiet, looking as radiant as the sunset
itself; her large black eyes shining,
unoppressed by the rich light; her long dark
hair on each side the wasted face, and
waving down to the white hands which lay
outside the quilt. Their eyes met, full and
clear; and Mary knew that her cousin's
mind was now clear, like the gaze of her eyes.

"I see it all now." said the dying woman,
gently.

"What do you see, love?"

"I see the reason of everything that I did
not understand before." And she began to
speak of her life and its events, and went on
with a force and clearness, and natural
eloquence—yet more, with a simple piety—
which Mary was wont to speak of afterwards
as the finest revelation of a noble soul that
she had ever unexpectedly met with. Mrs.
Billiter knew that her little boys were dead;
she knew, by some means or other, all the
horrors by which she was surrounded; and
she knew that she was about to die. Yet
the conversation was a thoroughly cheerful
one. The faces of both were smiling; the
voices of both were lively, though that of the
dying woman was feeble. After summing up
the experience of her life, and declaring what
she expected to experience next, and leaving
a message for her mother, she said there was
but one thing more; she ' should like to
receive the sacrament.' Mary wrote a note
in pencil to Mr. Finch, and sent it by Sally,
who had been hovering about ever since the
morning, in the hope of being of further
use, but who was glad now to get out of
sight, that her tears might have way; for she
felt that she was about to lose the only friend
who had been kind to her (in a way she could
accept) since Simpson had put her off from
the promised marriage.

"She is sorry to part with me," said that
dying friend. " Cousin Mary, you do not
think, as my mother does, that I have done
wrong in noticing Sally, do you?"

"No; I think you did well. And I think
your mother will be kind to her, for your
sake, from this time forward. Sickness and
death open our eyes to many things, you
know, cousin."

"Ay, they do. I see it all now."

Sally was sorely ashamed to bring back