“Miles,” the dear angel whispered, utterance beginning to fail her—­“do you remember what mother told us about always speaking the truth?  You are a manly boy, brother, and have too much pride to say anything but the truth; I wish Rupert were as frank.”

This was the first, the last, the only intimation I had ever heard from Grace, of her being conscious of any defect in Rupert’s character.  Would to God she had seen this important deficiency earlier! though this is wishing a child to possess the discernment and intelligence of a woman.  The hand was still on my cheek, and I would not have had it removed at that bitter moment to have been well assured of Lucy’s love.

“See,” my sister resumed, though she now spoke merely in a whisper—­“how brown his cheek is, though his forehead is white.  I doubt if mother would know him, Lucy.  Is Rupert’s cheek as brown as this, dear?”

“Rupert has not been as much exposed of late as Miles,” Lucy answered huskily, Grace’s arm still clinging to her neck.

The well-known voice appeared to awaken a new train of thought.

“Lucy,” my sister asked, “are you as fond of Miles as we both used to be, when children?”

“I have always had, and shall ever retain, a deep affection for Miles Wallingford,” Lucy answered, steadily.

Grace now turned towards me, releasing her hold of Lucy’s neck, from pure inability to sustain it; and she fastened her serene blue eyes on my countenance, whence they never deviated while she breathed.  My tears were uncontrollable, and they seemed to perplex rather that distress her.  Of a sudden, we heard her voice aloud, speaking gently, but with a fervour that rendered it distinct.  The words she uttered were full of the undying affection of a heart that never turned away from me for a single instant; no, not even in the petulance of childhood.  “Almighty Father,” she said, “look down from thy mercy-seat on this dear brother—­keep him for thyself; and, in thy good time, call him, through the Saviour’s love, to thy mansions of bliss.”

These were the last words that Grace Wallingford ever spoke.  She lived ten minutes longer; and she died on my bosom like the infant that breathes its last in the arms of its mother.  Her lips moved several times; once I fancied I caught the name of “Lucy,” though I have reason to think she prayed for us all, Rupert included, down to the moment she ceased to exist.

Chapter VIII.

  “There have been sweet singing voices
  In your walks that now are still;
  There are seats left void, in your earthly homes,
  Which none again may fill.”

  Mrs. Hemans.