“Nay, nay, there is a contingency, my child, under which you might reveal it; and it is to provide for this possible contingency that I feel constrained to leave this secret with you.” “I will be faithful, dearest mother.” “I know it, my dove!--sit closer now and listen. But stop--first go and see if the door is closed.” “It is closed, dear mother.” “Ah, but go and lock it, my child.” Margaret complied. “It is fast now, dear mother.” “Come then and sit upon the bed where you were before, so that I can see your sweet face; give me your dear hand again--there!--now listen.” CHAPTER IX. FALLING ASLEEP. “Oh, Mother Earth, upon thy lap Thy weary ones receiving, And o’er them, silent as a dream, Thy grassy mantle weaving, Fold softly in thy long embrace, That heart so worn and broken, And cool its pulse of fire beneath Thy shadows old and oaken!” --WHITTIER. Meanwhile, the friends assembled downstairs, in Mrs. Helmstedt’s parlor, waited anxiously for her summons. Presently, the bell rang, and Nellie Houston sprang up quickly to answer it. And soon after she left, Margaret appeared, but with a face so changed, so aghast, that all who beheld it were stricken with fear and wonder. It wore no expression of grief, or terror, or anxiety--it looked as if all these emotions were impossible to it, henceforth--it looked awed and appalled, as though some tremendous revelation of sin or suffering, or both, had fallen like a thunderbolt upon that young brow, and stricken childhood from it at once and forever. Ralph Houston, who was waiting for her appearance, sprang up to meet her, and, alarmed at her expression of countenance, hastened toward her, exclaiming: “Margaret, Margaret! what is it?” But, with a gesture of almost awful solemnity, she waved him away, and, silent as a visitant from the grave, passed through and left the room. Ralph gazed after her in consternation, and then turned upon his father a look of mute inquiry. The colonel gravely shook his head, and remained silent. Margaret did not return. Some hours subsequent to this, near midnight, were assembled, in the chamber of death, old Colonel and Mrs. Compton, the Houstons, Dr. Hartley and Mr. Wellworth--all the family and friends, in fact, except Margaret. She had not made her appearance since. With that look of annihilated youth, she had passed through the parlor, and gone out. All wondered at her absence from the dying bed of her idolized mother; but none expressed an opinion upon the subject. The chamber was dimly lighted by a shaded lamp that stood upon the hearth, and, reversing the natural course of light, threw the shadows, in strange, fantastic shapes, to the ceiling. It projected the shadow of Mr. Wellworth, who stood at Mrs. Helmstedt’s feet, up over the bed, until it looked like the form of some dark spirit, swooping down to snatch the soul of the dying.