'And was I not dying?' returned Olive, in the same dreamy tone. 'When I close my eyes I can bring it all back; the faintness, the dizziness, the great circles of light, the deadly, shuddering cold creeping over my limbs, every one weeping round me, and yet beyond a great silence and darkness; we begin to understand what silence means then.' 'A great writer once spoke of "voices at the other end of silence,"' returned Ethel, in a stifled tone. This strange talk attracted and yet oppressed her. 'But silence itself--what is silence?--one sometimes stops to think about it, and then its grandeur seems to crush one. What if silence be the voice of God!' 'Dear Livy, you must not excite yourself,' interrupted Richard; but his tone was awestruck too. 'Great thoughts do not excite,' she returned, calmly. She had forgotten Ethel--all of them. From the couch where she lay she could see the dark violet fells, the soft restful billows of green, silver splashes of light through the trees. How peaceful and quiet it all looked. Ah! if it had only been given her to walk in those green pastures and 'beside the still waters of the Paradise of God;' if that day which shall be known to the Lord 'had come to her when "at eventide it shall be light;"'--eventide!--alas! for her there still must remain the burden and heat of the day--sultry youth, weariness of premature age, 'light that shall neither be clear nor dark,' before that blessed eventide should come, 'and she should pass through the silence into the rest beyond.' 'Aunt Milly, if you or Cardie would read me something,' she said at last, with a wonderful sadness in her voice; and as they hastened to comply with her wish, the brief agitation vanished from her face. What if it were not His will! what if some noble work stood ready to her faltering hand, "content to fill a little space, if Thou be glorified!" 'Oh, I must learn to say that,' she whispered. 'Are you tired, Livy?' asked Richard at last, as he paused a moment in his reading; but there was no answer. Olive's eyes were closed. One thin hand lay under her cheek, a tear hung on the eyelashes; but on the sleeping face there lay an expression of quiet peace that was almost childlike. It was noticed that Olive mended more rapidly from that evening. Dr. Heriot had recommended change of air; and as Olive was too weak to bear a long journey, Mildred took her to Redcar for a few weeks. Richard accompanied them, but did not remain long, as his father seemed unwilling to lose him during his last few months at home. During their absence two important events took place at the vicarage. Dad Fabian paid his promised visit, and the new curate arrived. Polly's and Chriss's letter brimmed over with news. 'Every one was delighted with her dear old Dad,' Polly wrote; 'Richard was gracious, Mr. Lambert friendly, and Roy enthusiastically admiring.'