Rosalind’s story was that which the reader already knows, with the addition of another extracted from little Amy, who had one of those wonderful tales of childish endurance and silence which seem scarcely credible, yet occur so often, to tell. For many nights past, Amy, clinging to her sister, with her face hidden on Rosalind’s shoulder, declared that she had seen the same figure steal in. She had never clearly seen the face, but the child had been certain from the first that it was mamma. Mamma had gone to Johnny first, and then had come to her own little bed, where she stood for a moment before she disappeared. Johnny’s outcry had been always, Amy said, after the figure disappeared, but she had seen it emerge from out of the dimness, and glide away, and by degrees this mystery had become the chief incident in her life. All this Rosalind repeated with tremulous eloquence; and excitement, as she stood before the two elder people, on her defence. “But I saw her, Uncle John; what argument can be so strong as that? You have been moving about, you have not got your letters; and perhaps--perhaps--” cried Rosalind with tears--“perhaps it has happened only now, only to-night. A woman who was far from her children might come and see them--and see them,” she struggled to say through her sobs, “on her way to heaven.” “Oh, Rosalind! it is a fortnight since it begun,” Mrs. Lennox said. “Do people die in a moment?” cried Rosalind. “She may have been dying all this time; and perhaps when they thought her wandering in her mind it might be that she was here. Oh, my mother; who would watch over her, who would be taking care of her? and me so far away!” John Trevanion sprang from his chair. It was intolerable to sit there and listen and feel the contagion of this excitement, which was so irrational, so foolish, gain his own being. Women take a pleasure in their own anguish, which a man cannot bear. “Rosalind,” he cried, “this is too terrible, you know. I cannot stand it if you can; I tell you, if anything had happened, I must have heard. All this is simply impossible. You have all got out of order, the children first, and their fancies have acted upon you.” “It is their digestion, I always said so--or gout in the system,” said Aunt Sophy, lifting her handkerchief to her eyes. “It is derangement of the brain, I think,” said John. “I see I must get you out of here; one of you has infected the other. Come, Rosalind, you have so much sense--let us see you make use of it.” “Uncle John, what has sense to do with it? I have seen her,” Rosalind said. “This is madness, Rosalind.” “What is madness? Are my eyes mad that saw mamma? I was not thinking of seeing her. In a moment I lifted up my eyes, and she was there. Is it madness that she should die? Oh no, more wonderful how she can live; or madness to think that her heart would fly to us--oh, like an arrow, the moment it was free?”