quaked within her; and then through the hush that succeeded, and through the black hours of night and the dawning of the day. It was the first vigil she had ever kept, and her mind was bewildered with fear and anxiety, and the confusion of ignorance. She sat alone, wistful and frightened, afraid to move lest she should disturb her mother’s restless sleep, falling into dreary little dozes, waking up cold and terrified, hearing the furniture, and the floor, and the walls and windows--every thing about her, in short--giving out ghostly sounds in the stillness. She had never heard those creaks and jars before with which our inanimate surroundings give token of the depth of silence and night. And Mrs. Preston’s face looked grey in the faint light, and her breathing was disturbed; and by times she tossed her arms about, and murmured in her sleep. Poor Pamela had a weary night; and when the morning came with its welcome light, and she opened her eyes after a snatch of unwitting sleep, and found her mother awake and looking at her, the poor child started up with a sharp cry, in which there was as much terror as relief. “Mamma!” she cried. “I did not mean to go to sleep. Are you better? Shall I run and get you a cup of tea?” “Come and speak to me, Pamela,” said Mrs. Preston. “I am quite well--at least I think I am well. My poor darling, have you been sitting up all night?” “It does not matter,” said Pamela; “it will not hurt me; but I was frightened. Are you sure you are better? Poor mamma, how ill you have been! You looked--I can not tell you how you looked. But you have your own eyes again this morning. Let me go and get you some tea.” “I don’t want any tea,” said Mrs. Preston. “I want to speak to you. I am not so strong as I used to be, and you must not cross me, Pamela. I have something to do before I die. It upset me to hear of it, and to think of all that might happen. But I must get well and do it. It is all for your sake; and you must not cross me, Pamela. You must think well of what I say.” “No,” said Pamela, though her heart sank a little. “I never did any thing to cross you, mamma; but Mrs. Swayne said you were not to talk; and she left the kettle by the fire that you might have some tea.” “I do not care for tea; I care for nothing but to get up and do what has to be done,” said her mother. “It is all for your sake. Things will be very different, Pamela, from what you think: but you must not cross me. It is all for you--all for you.” “Oh, mamma, don’t mind me,” said Pamela, kissing her grey cheek. “I am all right, if you will only be well; and I don’t know any thing you can have to do. You are not fit for any thing but to lie still. It is very early yet. I will draw the curtains if you will try to go to sleep.”