On Thursday morning, Henrietta began to awake from her sound night’s rest.  Was it a dream that she saw a head between her and the window?  She thought it was, and turned to sleep again; but at her movement the head turned, the figure advanced, and Mrs. Geoffrey Langford stood over her.

Henrietta opened her eyes, and gazed upon her without saying a word for some moments; then, as her senses awakened, she half sprung up.  “How is mamma?  Does she want me?  Why?” Her aunt made an effort to speak, but it seemed beyond her power.

“O, aunt, aunt!” cried she, “what is the matter?  What has happened?  Speak to me!”

“Henrietta,” said her aunt, in a low, calm, but hoarse tone, “she bade you bear up for your brother’s sake.”

“But—­but—­” said Henrietta, breathlessly; “and she—­”

“My dear child, she is at rest.”

Henrietta laid her head back, as if completely stunned, and unable to realise what she had heard.

“Tell me,” she said, after a few moments.

Her aunt knelt by her and steadily, without a tear, began to speak.  “It was at half-past twelve; she had been asleep some little time very quietly.  I was just going to lie down on the sofa, when I thought her face looked different, and stood watching.  She woke, said she felt oppressed, and asked me to raise her pillows.  While she was leaning against my arm, there was a spasm, a shiver, and she was gone!  Yes, we must only think of her as in perfect peace!”

Henrietta lay motionless for some moments, then at last broke out with a sort of anger, “O, why did you not call me?”

“There was not one instant, my dear, and I could not ring, for fear of disturbing Fred. I could not call any one till it was too late.”

“O, why was I not there?  I would—­I would—­she must have heard me.  I would not have let her go.  O, mamma!” cried Henrietta, almost unconscious of what she said, and bursting into a transport of ungovernable grief; sobbing violently and uttering wild incoherent exclamations.  Her aunt tried in vain to soothe her by kind words, but all she said seemed only to add impulse to the torrent; and at last she found herself obliged to wait till the violence of the passion had in some degree exhausted itself; and young, strong, and undisciplined as poor Henrietta was, this was not quickly.  At last, however, the sobs grew less loud, and the exclamations less vehement.  Aunt Geoffrey thought she could be heard, leant down over her, kissed her, and said, “Now we must pray that we may fulfil her last desire; bear it patiently, and try to help your brother.”

“Fred, O poor Fred!” and she seemed on the point of another burst of lamentation, but her aunt went on speaking—­“I must go to him; he has yet to hear it, and you had better come to him as soon as you are dressed.”

“O aunt; I could not bear to see him.  It will kill him, I know it will!  O no, no, I cannot, cannot see Fred!  O, mamma, mamma!” A fresh fit of weeping succeeded, and Mrs. Langford herself feeling most deeply, was in great doubt and perplexity; she did not like to leave Henrietta in this condition, and yet there was an absolute necessity that she should go to poor Fred, before any chance accident or mischance should reveal the truth.