Acknowledged by every one as the daughter of the Greys, caressed and idolized by Alice, petted by Aunt Penelope, and treated by Mr. Grey with the utmost tenderness and deference, Magdalen would have been perfectly happy but for one unfulfilled desire which was the skeleton at her side. Between herself and Alice there was perfect confidence, while she was learning daily more and more to respect her father, who omitted nothing which could tend to win her love. To her mother she was the same gentle nurse who never grew weary, but who sat hour after hour by the bedside, repeating over and over again the story of the lost child, until Laura knew it by heart and would correct her at once if she deviated ever so little. There was a change gradually stealing over the invalid, a change both in body and mind. She was far more quiet, and did not rock the cradle as much as formerly, and once, when Magdalen had finished her story for the second time that day, she said to her, “I think I have heard it enough to know that baby is not in the crib, and never has been. Take it away,—where I can’t rock it again and make Arthur so nervous.” They carried it out,—Alice and Magdalen together,—and put it away, each feeling, as they left it, as if turning from a little grave. Laura never spoke of it but once, and that was to her husband. Pointing to the place where it had stood so long, she said with a smile, “Do you see it is gone? It will never keep you awake again. Kiss me, Arthur, for I, too, shall be gone before long.” He kissed her, more than once, and put his arms about her, and felt how small and thin she had grown; then looking into her face he saw the change which only Magdalen had noticed. The burden was lifting, the cloud was breaking, and Laura was passing away. There was no particular disease, only a gradual breaking up of the springs of life, and as the days grew longer and warmer she drooped more and more, until at last she never left her bed all day, and rarely spoke except to Magdalen, who was with her constantly. Sometimes it seemed as if there was a gleam of reason struggling through the darkness which had shrouded her mind so long, but it never went much further than such expressions as, “I think I do remember the boy with the kind voice and soft blue eyes, to whom I gave Magdalen, but I can’t quite make out how that Magdalen and this are one.” “I would not try now; I’d go to sleep and rest,” Magdalen would say, and obedient to the voice she always heeded, Laura would grow quiet and fall again into the deep slumber so common to her now.