June had come, the genial month of June, and Mr. Grafton was not revived by its soft air. He declined daily, and Edith, his tender nurse, could not conceal from herself that there was little hope of his ever reviving. Dinah had watched with him almost every night, but, worn out with fatigue, Edith had persuaded her to take some moments for repose. After a night of much restlessness, towards morning, her father fell into a tranquil slumber. Edith was alone in the darkened room, and as she sat in the deep silence by his bedside, an old-fashioned clock, that stood in the corner, seemed, to her excited nerves, to strike its monotonous tick directly on her temples. A small taper was burning in the chimney, and the long shadows it cast served only to darken the room. From time to time, as Edith leaned over her father, she touched his forehead with her hand: in the solitude and stillness, it seemed a medium of communication with the mind of her father, and held the place of language. At length he opened his eyes, and seeing her bending over him, he drew her towards him, and kissed her tenderly. In a whisper, he said, "I feel, my child, that I am dying." "Do not weep," said he, observing how much Edith was shocked; "you can trust in God. You can be near me in death, as you have been in life. Now is the time, my Edith, to feel the value of all those principles we have learned together through life. I feel that God is near us, and that when I am gone, he will be near to you." Edith threw herself into his arms. Her father laid his hand on her head, and prayed audibly. She arose more calm, and asked him if she should not call the faithful slaves. "No, my child," he said; "let the poor children"--he always named them thus--"let the poor children sleep. God is here. I hold your hands in mine. What more do we want? Let the quiet night pass. The morning will be glorious! it will open for me in another world." It was a beautiful sight, that young and timid woman sustaining her aged father, and he trusting so entirely in God, and feeling no anxiety, no grief, but that of leaving her alone. As she sat thus holding his hand in hers, his breath became less frequent; he fixed his eyes on hers with a tender smile. His breathing stopped--his spirit was gone! Edith did not shriek, or faint. It was the first time she had been in the chamber of death, and a holy calmness, a persuasion that her father's spirit was still there, came over her. She closed his eyes, and sat long with his hand strained in hers. The first note of the early birds made her start. She arose, and opened the window. The morning had dawned, and every leaf, every blade of grass, was glittering in the early dew. Her father's horse, that had borne him so many years, was feeding in the enclosure. At the sound of the window, he came forward: then a sense of her loss came over Edith, and she burst into tears. CHAPTER XI.