“But you have not heard half of my story yet,” she said, softly, crushing back her rebellious thoughts. “Ten years ago, when first my sisters went away from their own home, to the vineyard in Orton village, one of the same band that helped us in our trouble gave Uncle Fay a silver salver, with our family crest upon it, because Luella had not turned from her purpose when she was trying to reinstate herself in the family name. And, last of all, just one short year ago, Morrillo came here in a pelting storm, and claimed a home for a few hours. We knew him well, but he had entirely forgotten us. He feigned no surprise, however, when you recalled those distant, painful days, but restored with seeming pleasure all these mementoes of the city home. You know, if we had the most costly articles here, they would be immediately taken from us. He gave us even more than we can keep in safety, and for all these kindnesses I am very grateful.” And a slight blush deepened on the girl’s cheek as she ceased speaking. “So it is only gratitude, eh! that calls my Bel so often down to the sparkling waters of the gulf in the moonlight?” said the mother, with the same unreconciled sadness in her voice. “I care not that you should know it, mother,” was the reply. “I have never yet tried to hide anything from you. I am proud to acknowledge the acquaintance of one so noble as Claud Morrillo. It is to meet him that I wander down the beach when I know the boats are coming in,” And, with a look of forced carelessness, the young Italian kissed her mother a good-night, and went to rest with a heavy weight on her proud heart, where a happy hope had late found birth. Years pass very rapidly when every day brings its own task and leaves no time for idleness; and now, almost before we are aware of it, the luscious autumn is gone, winter withdraws his fleecy mantle, and the spring is growing old. Again the cottage home is hushed and still; the blinds are closed, and no sign or sound of life comes from the silent interior. The gray morning sky is tinted with gorgeous clouds, that gradually deepen toward the east, where they are bursting into one steady glow of crimson beauty. In the little room, that has so long been Arabel’s, the same slight form is resting, and the same low voice breathed out the last night’s prayer. But a change has passed over her still life,--a change that is felt, but only half realized. “Dead, dead!” she moaned, faintly, in her uneasy slumbers; and in the hall below two forms are faintly discernible in the darkened gloom. They are the two older sisters, Christabel and Luella, who have returned from the vineyard to watch over their mother’s sickness, and attend to the last sad rites of her burial, for she was indeed dead, dead. “It is very hard to have death steal so dear a mother, is it not Lu?” said Arabel, with childish trust, for grief had made her alike powerless to think or act.