Two years passed away, and Sir Vane St. Lawrence's circumstances were rapidly improving; his letters were constant and cheerful--he spoke always of the time when he should come home and claim Pauline for his wife. She only sighed as she read the hopeful words, for she had resolved that duty should be her watchword while Lady Darrell lived--even should that frail, feeble life last for fifty years, she would never leave her. There came to her chill doubts and fears, dim, vague forebodings that she should never see Vane again--that their last parting was for ever; not that she doubted him, but that it seemed hopeless to think he would wait until her hair was gray, and the light of her youth had left her. Never mind--she had done her duty; she had sinned, but she had made the noblest atonement possible for her sin. Two years had passed, and the summer was drawing to a close. To those who loved and tended her it seemed that Lady Darrell's life was closing with it. Even Lady Hampton had ceased to speak hopefully, and Darrell Court was gloomy with the shadow of the angel of death. There came an evening when earth was very lovely--when the gold of the setting sun, the breath of the western wind, the fragrance of the flowers, the ripple of the fountains, the song of the birds, were all beautiful beyond words to tell; and Lady Darrell, who had lain watching the smiling summer heavens, said: "I should like once more to see the sun set, Pauline. I should like to sit at the window, and watch the moon rise." "So you shall," responded Pauline. "You are a fairy queen. You have but to wish, and the wish is granted." Lady Darrell smiled--no one ever made her smile except Pauline; but the fulfillment of the wish was not so easy after all. Lady Hampton's foreboding was realized. Lady Darrell might have recovered from her long, serious illness but that her mother's complaint, the deadly inheritance of consumption, had seized upon her, and was gradually destroying her. It was no easy matter now to dress the wasted figure; but Pauline seemed to have the strength, the energy of twenty nurses. She was always willing, always cheerful, always ready; night and day seemed alike to her; she would look at her hands, and say: "Oh! Elinor, I wish I could give you one-half my strength--one-half my life!" "Do you? Pauline, if you could give me half your life, would you do so?" "As willingly as I am now speaking to you," she would answer. They dressed the poor lady, whose delicate beauty had faded like some summer flower. She sat at the window in a soft nest of cushions which Pauline had prepared for her, her wasted hands folded, her worn face brightened with the summer sunshine. She was very silent and thoughtful for some time, and then Pauline, fearing that she was dull, knelt in the fashion that was usual to her at Lady Darrell's feet, and held the wasted hands in hers. "What are you thinking about, Elinor?" Pauline asked. "Something as bright as the sunshine?"