The old woman shook her head. “I must see the last of him, sir; but I know he will be angry when his eyes open on me, for he has grown very thoughtful of others.” “Ah, if he had but been as thoughtful of himself!” murmured Leonard; and he seated himself by the table, on which, as he leaned his elbow, he dislodged some papers placed there. They fell to the ground with a dumb, moaning, sighing sound. “What is that?” said he starting. The old woman picked up the manuscripts and smoothed them carefully. “Ah, sir, he bade me place these papers here. He thought they might keep you from fretting about him, in case you would sit up and wake. And he had a thought of me, too; for I have so pined to find out the poor young lady, who left them years ago. She was almost as dear to me as he is; dearer perhaps until now—when—when—I am about to lose him.” Leonard turned from the papers, without a glance at their contents: they had no interest for him at such a moment. The hostess went on— “Perhaps she is gone to heaven before him; she did not look like one long for this world. She left us so suddenly. Many things of hers besides these papers are still here; but I keep them aired and dusted, and strew lavender over them, in case she ever come for them again. You never heard tell of her, did you, sir?” she added, with great simplicity, and dropping a half curtsey. “Of her?—of whom?” “Did not Mr John tell you her name—dear—dear;—Mrs Bertram.” Leonard started;—the very name so impressed upon his memory by Harley L’Estrange. “Bertram!” he repeated. “Are you sure?” “Oh yes, sir! And many years after she had left us, and we had heard no more of her, there came a packet addressed to her here, from over sea, sir. We took it in, and kept it, and John would break the seal, to know if it would tell us anything about her; but it was all in a foreign language like—we could not read a word.” “Have you the packet? Pray show it to me. It may be of the greatest value. To-morrow will do—I cannot think of that just now. Poor Burley!” Leonard’s manner indicated that he wished to talk no more, and to be alone. So Mrs Goodyer left him, and stole back to Burley’s room on tiptoe. The young man remained in deep reverie for some moments. “Light,” he murmured. “How often ‘Light’ is the last word of those round whom the shades are gathering!”[31] He moved, and straight on his view through the cottage lattice there streamed light, indeed—not the miserable ray lit by a human hand—but the still and holy effulgence of a moonlit heaven. It lay broad upon the humble floors—pierced across the threshold of the death chamber, and halted clear amidst its shadows. Leonard stood motionless, his eye following the silvery silent splendour.