The unusual sound of wheels was at this moment heard, and the Fayerweather chariot drove up to the terrace. Dr. Holly and Mrs. Wendell alighted, but Judith feeling herself unable to meet them, retreated from the room before they were ushered in. Mrs. Wendell was so much overcome, that for a few moments she was unable to speak, and it fell to Dr. Holly to tell their errand. He made very particular inquiries in regard to Judith’s health, and how she had sustained the shock of the late afflictive intelligence, and then proceeded to mention that Madam Fayerweather was in a very alarming state, having neither changed her position, eaten or slept, since the evening before the last, and that he had accompanied Mrs. Wendell to see if Miss Judith could feel herself equal to returning with them, in the hope that the sight of her might have a favorable effect on madam, in whom if a change could not speedily be induced, he felt himself called upon to say, the worst might be apprehended. Mrs. Stimpson immediately replied—“She would answer for her daughter, that she would feel it a solace to her own feelings to see Madam Fayerweather, even if she could not be instrumental in restoring her.” Mrs. Wendell then said—“The sight of Judith would, if any thing could.” Mrs. Stimpson left the room, and in a few minutes returned with her daughter. At sight of Mrs. Wendell, who fondly kissed her, Judith’s tears burst forth, but she made no hesitation in accompanying her home. As the chariot drove through the street the contrast of her present feelings with those with which she had passed it two days before, struck her forcibly, but she resolutely turned her thoughts from herself to the stricken one whom she was going to see. When they arrived at the house, John came out and assisted them to alight; he pressed Judith’s hand but could not speak. Dr. Holly was desirous to try his experiment without delay; they therefore proceeded immediately to the apartment of his patient. On seeing Madam Fayerweather Judith’s strength suddenly failed her and she came near falling; but recollecting how much might depend on her retaining in some degree her self-possession, she made a strong effort over herself, and went forward to the easy-chair, where sat the bereaved mother. The latter was, in truth, not an object to be looked upon without emotion, even by a stranger. So rigid and motionless was her countenance, that it appeared as if changed into stone; her eyes were fixed; and her hair which, before this last blow, had retained all its gloss and beauty, was turned to an ashen hue, giving a strange and unearthly appearance to her pallid features. “Sister,” said Madam Brinley, who sat by her, “here’s your dear child, Judith—will you not look at her and speak to her?”