Thus spoke Jemima, with a volubility that nearly took her breath away. She had come to my room in the morning with the news that Mrs. Edwin Barley was worse. I burst into tears, and asked if she were going to die: which brought forth the above rebuke. "My thoughts were running upon whether we servants should have mourning given us for young Mr. King," resumed Jemima, as if she were bent upon removing unpleasant impressions from my mind. "Now just you make haste and dress yourself, Miss Hereford—Mrs. Edwin Barley has been asking for you." I made haste; Jemima helped; and she ushered me to the door of the sickroom, halting to whisper a parting word. "Don't you begin crying again, Miss. Your aunt is no more going to die than I am." The first words spoken by Mrs. Edwin Barley were a contradiction to this, curious coincident that it may seem. She was lying very high on the frilled white pillows, no cap on, her cheeks hectic, and her lovely golden hair failing around her head. A large bright fire burned in the grate, and a small tray, with a white cloth and cup on it, stood on the table near. "Child," she began, holding out her hand to me, "I fear I am about to be taken from you." I did not answer; I did not cry; all tears seemed scared away then. It was a confirmation of my secret, inward fears, and my face turned white. "What was that you said to me about the Keppe-Carews never dying without a warning? And I laughed at you! Do you remember? Anne, I think the warning came to me last night." I glanced timidly round the room. It was a luxurious bed-chamber, costly furniture and pretty toilette trifles everywhere. The crimson silk curtains were drawn closely before the bay-window, and I could see Selina clearly in the semi-light. "Your mamma told you she had a dream, Anne. Well, _I_ have had a dream. And yet I feel sure it was not a dream, but reality, reality. She appeared to me last night." "Who? Mamma?" "Your mamma. The Keppe-Carew superstition is, that when one is going to die, the last relative, whether near or distant, who has been taken from them by death, comes again to give them notice that their own departure is near. Ursula was the last who went, and she came to me in the night." "It can't be true," I sobbed, shivering from head to foot. "She stood there, in the faint rays of the shaded lamp," pursued Selina, not so much as listening to me. "I have not really slept all night; I have been in that semi-conscious, dozing state when the mind is awake both to dreams and to reality, knowing not which is which. Just before the clock struck two, I awoke partially from one of these semi-dreams, and I saw your mamma at the foot of the bed—a shadowy sort of figure and face, but I knew it for Ursula's. She just looked at me, and said, 'Selina!' Then I woke up thoroughly—the name, the sound of her well-remembered voice ringing in my ears." "And seeing her?" I eagerly asked.