“You’ll hear soon enough, Em.! You’ll hear soon enough! But oh, do promise me you’ll love us all the same, all the same, whatever you hear!” said Susan Palmer, with a great sobbing sigh as she released the girl and wiped her own eyes. “Won’t you tell me what it is, mother, dear?” “No, Em. It ain’t for me to tell you. But oh! you will still call me ‘mother,’ and poor, dear, good, good John, who is so fond of you, ‘father’—won’t you, Em.?” she pleaded. Em. could only look at the distressed woman in silent dismay—thinking of approaching illness, fever, delirium. “You know you will call the gentleman and lady papa and mamma because children in high life call their parents that. But you will call me and poor old John plain mother and father as you always did—won’t you, Em.?” “She is distressing herself about my possible marriage and my future mother and father-in-law,” thought Em.; and then she answered earnestly: “_Always_, dear mother. Always, believe me! I will never call any one else father or mother but you and father!” “That’s my loving heart! That’s my sweet, loving heart! You can call them ‘papa’ and ‘mamma,’ you know, and they’ll like that just as well, and even better, for that is fashionable and elegant, and polite, and so on. But oh, Em!”—with another burst of emotion—“it is just as if you were dead to us! Just as if you were dead! I wish—oh, I do wish that we had taught you to call us ‘daddy’ and ‘mammy,’ for then I should know you would never call any fine lady or gentleman _that_. Now, come upstairs, child, for I have kept you down here too long already. But oh, Em.! It is just like closing down the coffin-lid over your face to let you go now! We part now, we will never meet again in the same way, Em.,” she exclaimed, as she began slowly to climb the stairs, followed closely by the troubled and bewildered girl. Not a word more was spoken between them until they reached the attic landing, when Mrs. Palmer opened the door of the sick-room and said: “Go in there, Em.! Go in alone! Oh! my Lord! It is like lowering you into the grave! We will meet again! But not the same! Oh, nevermore the same.” She sighed as she sent Em. alone into the room and gently closed the door after her. The sick chamber, as I mentioned once before, was a large upper room. It was now in obscurity, the smoldering hardwood fire in the fireplace, and the rustic lamp on the mantel-shelf giving but little light. Em. went up to the old-fashioned four-poster at the upper end of the room, where Dr. Willet had already taken his place, and old Monica was waiting. The latter gave way as Em. approached the bed. The dying woman was lying very still, on her back, with her wasted face level on the pillow, and her skeleton hands folded on her breast. “Speak to her,” said Dr. Willet. “Aunty Whitlock,” said Em., gently, bending over her. The woman sighed, moaned, and opened her eyes. “Aunty Whitlock, how do you do?” inquired Em.