speaking with her upon the subject again, and since that time it has never been referred to between us. But soon afterwards another circumstance occurred to cause me alarm. It was the night on which her mother died. We none of us knew on the day of her death that it was so near, and Lily went as usual to the music-hall to fulfil her duties. She came home late--at midnight. Shortly after she came home, her mother died. Alfred was away--had been away all the night; and it was not until two o'clock in the morning that we heard his step upon the stairs. Lily went out to meet him. I being angry with him for his thoughtlessness, and for another reason, which I cannot explain, remained for a little while with the dead body of his mother--thinking also that, at such a solemn time, the undisturbed communion of brother and sister would be consoling to Lily. When I went into Lily's room, I saw that Lily's grief had been deepened by her brother's coming home flushed with drink. I had a solemn duty to fulfil that night; Alfred is but a young man, with many temptations thrown in his way, and I hoped that something which I had to say to him might, under the influence of such an event as had occurred, have a good effect upon him in the future--might teach him a lesson which would make him less selfishly wrapt in his own pleasures, and more thoughtful of us--no, not of us, of Lily, whom he loves, I believe, very truly, and whom he would not consciously harm for any consideration. But the old lines are bitterly true, 'that evil is wrought by want of thought as well as want of heart.' In justice to Alfred, I must not relate to you the nature of our conversation. I brought him into this room, where his dead mother lay. Lily begged that she might come and sit with us, but I could not permit her--the pain she would have suffered would have been greater than that she had already experienced, and I bade her good-night, and begged her to go to bed. She submitted unresistingly--her nature is singularly gentle--and Alfred and I left her. It was daylight when our interview was ended; Alfred and I went to the door, and opening it, saw Lily lying on the ground, asleep. Poor child! she had been much agitated by the events of the night, and was frightened of solitude, so she had come to the door of the room where we were sitting, finding companionship in being near us, and hearing perhaps the murmur of our voices. Thus she must have fallen asleep. I called to her, 'Lily!' To my surprise, she rose slowly, and stood before us; but she was not awake. She nestled to me, and came into the room, still asleep; and even when I led her into her own room, she followed me, still sleeping. We laid her upon her bed, and I sat by her for hours, watching her. When she awoke, she had no consciousness of what had passed, and I would not distress her by telling her. Three times since that night I have discovered her in the same condition. Her rooms open into mine, as well as into the passage,