There stood Britomarte, sun-burned, dusty, travel-stained, almost unrecognizable, but undoubtedly Britomarte. “Britomarte! Miss Conyers!” exclaimed Justin, going towards her with both hands stretched forth. She met him and seized his hands as she exclaimed: “How is your sister? How is my dear Erminie?” “Oh, Britomarte! Oh, my friend, in what an hour of sorrow we meet!” “She is—not gone?” hurriedly breathed Miss Conyers. “No, not gone, but she is an angel prepared for Heaven, and she is going,” groaned Justin. “Oh, what is it? What is it that is killing her?” wept Britomarte. Justin told her, as Elfie had told him: “A malignant fever, caught in the hospital during her attendance upon the sick soldiers.” “Elfie? where is she? How is she?” “Well, except that she is very much fatigued with incessant watching. She is gone to lie down for a few hours.” “And when can I see my dear Erminie?” “At any time. Nothing disturbs her now. Would to Heaven it could. But I warn you, dear Britomarte, that the sight will almost break your heart.” “Take me to her, please,” said Miss Conyers, rising and taking off her dusty bonnet and shawl. Justin led the way up stairs to the chamber of death, and Britomarte went up to the bedside and stood gazing upon the ruins of her beautiful friend as Justin had gazed before; and the watchers now made way for her as they had once made way for him; and after a few minutes Britomarte sank, sobbing, upon her knees, and buried her head in the bedclothes. They let her weep on undisturbed until the storm of grief had exhausted its violence and left her quiet, and then Justin and Dr. Sales approached, and each took a hand of hers, and they raised her from the floor and placed her on the chair. “Your grief is one that is shared by us all. All who knew and loved her will be awfully bereaved. Only God can comfort us,” said the pastor, gravely, as he pressed the hand of Miss Conyers. At that moment old Frederica again appeared at the door, ushering in the medical attendant. The physician in solemn silence shook hands with Dr. Sales, Justin and Britomarte, and then proceeded to examine his patient. He lingered some fifteen or twenty minutes at the bedside with his finger on her pulse, his eyes on her countenance, or his ear near her lips—counting, watching, or listening for the ebb, or flow, or pause of the currents of life. At length he made his report: no change in the patient for better or worse. He gave his prescriptions,—certain draughts and powders, to be administered under certain contingencies; and he issued his orders to be summoned immediately should any change take place in her, and then he took leave and went away. The afternoon passed off and no change took place in Erminie. She lay on her bed, like a dead girl on her bier, or like a stone effigy on a tomb, and her watchers sat around her motionless as statues.