When the frugal meal was over, Miss O'Reilly took my hand, and led me to her brother. He was standing on the hearth; he looked down at me, laid his hand on my head, and quietly bade me good-night. His sister offered him her cheek. "Are you not coming down again?" he asked. "No. I feel sleepy." He looked deep into her eyes. "Nonsense!" she said impatiently, "no such a thing." He passed his arm around her and smiled. "How handsome you are, Kate!" he observed, with jesting flattery; "woe to my peace of mind when I meet--" "Not a bit!" she interrupted with a blush and a sigh; "no dark-haired woman will ever endanger your peace. Give me a kiss and let me go." He embraced her with a lingering tenderness that seemed to have a meaning, for she looked another way, and appeared moved. But at length he released her; she took my hand, led me up to her room, and undressed me in silence. She then looked at me, and said pointedly-- "Well!" I thought she meant I was to kiss her. I offered to do so, but she put me away, and observed more emphatically than before-- "Well!" I looked at her thoroughly puzzled. "Bless me!" she said, in her warm way, "is the child a heathen! Midge, Daisy, whatever your name may be, don't you know that you must say your prayers before going to bed!" "I always said my prayers to Papa," I replied, rather offended. "Then kneel down and say them to me." She sat on the edge of the bed; I knelt at her feet; she took my hands in hers, and fastening on me her clear brown eyes, she heard me to the end. Then she put me to bed, closed the curtains, and told me to sleep. I obeyed. I know not how long I had slept, when low moans awoke me. The light was still burning; I sat up softly, and looked through the opening of the curtains. The handsome sister of Cornelius was kneeling before a small table, on which stood a low lamp; its white circle of light fell on an open volume, but she was not reading; thrown back somewhat in the attitude of the penitent Magdalene, with her hands clasped, and her head sunk in her bosom, she was weeping bitterly. She whom I had seen but a few hours before fresh as a flower, cheerful, gay, was now pale as death, and seemed bowed down with grief. Tears ran down her check like rain, but the only words that passed her lips were those uttered by Christ in his agony on the Mount--"Thy will, not mine, be done!" And this she repeated over and over, as if vainly thirsting for the resignation she thus expressed.