since she has been so quiet as you see her
now."

"Surely you let in too much light?"
whispered Rosamond, looking round at the
window, through which the glow of the
evening sky poured warmly into the room.

"No, no!" he hastily rejoined. "Asleep
or awake, she always wants the light. If I
go away for a little while, as you tell me,
and if it gets on to be dusk before I come
back, light both those candles on the chimney-
piece. I shall try to be here again before
that; but if the time slips by too fast for me,
and if it so happens that she wakes and
talks strangely, and looks much away from
you into that far corner of the room there,
remember that the matches and the candles
are together on the chimney-piece, and that
the sooner you light them after the dim
twilight-time, the better it will be." With
those words he stole on tiptoe to the door and
went out.

His parting directions recalled Rosamond
to a remembrance of what had passed between
the doctor and herself that morning. She
looked round again anxiously to the window.
The sun was just sinking beyond the distant
house-tops: the close of day was not far off.
As she turned her head once more towards
the bed, a momentary chill crept over her.
She trembled a little, partly at the sensation
itself, partly at the recollection it aroused of
that other chill which had struck her in the
solitude of the Myrtle Room.

Stirred by the mysterious sympathies of
touch, her mother's hand at the same instant
moved in hers, and over the sad peacefulness
of the weary face there fluttered a
momentary trouble—the flying shadow of a
dream. The pale, parted lips opened, closed,
quivered, opened again; the faint breaths
came and went quickly and more quickly;
the head moved uneasily on the pillow; the
eyelids half unclosed themselves; low, faint,
moaning sounds poured rapidly from the
lips—changed erelong to half-articulated
sentences—then merged softly into intelligible
speech, and uttered these words:—

"Swear that you will not destroy this
paper! Swear that you will not take this
paper away with you if you leave the
house!"

The words that followed these were
whispered so rapidly and so low that Rosamond's
ear failed to catch them. They were followed
by a short silence. Then the dreaming voice
spoke again suddenly, and spoke louder.

"Where? where? where?" it said. "In
the bookcase? In the table-drawer?—Stop!
stop! In the picture of the ghost——"

The last words struck cold on Rosamond's
heart. She drew back suddenly with a movement
of alarm,—checked herself the instant
after, and bent down over the pillow again.
But it was too late. Her hand had moved
abruptly when she drew back, and her mother
woke with a start and a faint cry,—with
vacant, terror-stricken eyes, and with the
perspiration standing thick on her forehead.

"Mother!" cried Rosamond, raising her on
the pillow. "I have come back. Don't you
know me?"

"Mother?" she repeated, in mournful,
questioning tones. "Mother?" At the
second repetition of the word a bright flush
of delight and surprise broke out on her
face, and she clasped both arms suddenly
round her daughter's neck. "Oh, my own
Rosamond!" she said. "If I had ever been
used to waking up and seeing your dear face
look at me, I should have known you sooner,
in spite of my dream! Did you wake me, my
love? or did I wake myself?"

"I am afraid I woke you, mother."

"Don't say 'afraid.' I would wake from
the sweetest sleep that ever woman had, to
see your face and to hear you say 'Mother '
to me. You have delivered me, my love, from
the terror of one of my dreadful dreams. Oh,
Rosamond, I think I should live to be happy
in your love, if I could only get Porthgenna
Tower out of my mind—if I could only never
remember again the bedchamber where my
mistress died, and the room where I hid
the letter——"

"We will try and forget Porthgenna Tower
now," said Rosamond. "Shall we talk about
other places where I have lived, which you
have never seen? Or shall I read to you,
mother? Have you got any book here that
you are fond of?"

She looked, across the bed, at the table
on the other side. There was nothing on
it but some bottles of medicine, a few of
Uncle Joseph's flowers in a glass of water,
and a little oblong work-box. She looked
round at the chest of drawers behind her—
there were no books placed on the top of it.
Before she turned towards the bed again,
her eyes wandered aside to the window.
The sun was lost beyond the distant housetops:
the close of day was nearer at hand.

"If I could forget! O, me, if I could
only forget!" said her mother, sighing wearily
and beating her hand on the coverlid of the
bed.

"Are you well enough, dear, to amuse
yourself with work?" asked Rosamond,
pointing to the little oblong box on the table,
and trying to lead the conversation to a
harmless, every-day topic, by asking questions
about it. "What work do you do? May I
look at it?"

Her face lost its weary, suffering look, and
brightened once more into a smile. "There
is no work there," she said. "All the
treasures I had in the world, till you came
to see me, are shut up in that one little box.
Open it, my love, and look inside."

Rosamond obeyed, placing the box on the
bed where her mother could see it easily.
The first object that she discovered inside,
was a little book, in dark, worn binding. It
was an old copy of Wesley's Hymns. Some