Within a fort-night of her entrance into the desolate house Mrs. Farebrother lay upon her death-bed. She had been weak and ailing for months past, and the night's journey from London, no less than the deep unhappiness which, since her marriage, had drawn the roses from her cheeks and made her heart heavy and sad, now hastened her end. As she lay upon the ancient stately bed from which she was never to rise, a terrible loneliness fell upon her. Her darling child was by her side, mercifully asleep; her husband was moving about the apartment; the sunbeams falling through the window brought no comfort to the weary heart--all was so desolate, so desolate! In a trembling voice she called her husband to her. "Well?" he asked. "I must see my sister," she said. "I will not have her," he cried. "You are well enough without her. I will not have her here!" "I am well enough--to die!" she murmured. "I must see my sister before I go." "You are frightening yourself unnecessarily," said Miser Farebrother, fretfully. "You are always full of fancies, and putting me to expense. You never had the slightest consideration for me--not the slightest. You think of nobody but yourself." "I am frightened of this place," she found strength to say. "I cannot, I will not, die here alone! I must see my sister, I must see my sister!" Still he made no movement to comply with her request. "If you do not send for her at once," said his wife, "I will get up and go from the house and die in the roadway. God will give me strength to do it. I must see my sister, I must see my sister!" Awed, if not convinced, and fearful, too, lest any disturbance which it was in his power to avoid might bring him into unfavourable notice, and interfere with his cherished plans, he said, reluctantly, "I will send for her." "You are not deceiving me? You are not promising what you do not intend to perform?" "I will send for her, I tell you." "If you do not," she said--and there was a firmness in her weak tones which was not without its effect upon him--"misfortune will attend you all the days of your life. Nothing you do will prosper." He was superstitious, and believed in omens; and this sounded like a prophecy, the warning of which he dared not neglect. His wife's eyes followed him as he stepped to his desk and sat down and wrote. Presently he left the room, and went in search of Tom Barley, to whom he gave a letter, bidding him to post it in the village. Grumbling at what he had done, he returned to his wife. "Is my sister coming?" she asked. "I have written to her," he replied. "Go to sleep and rest. You will be better in the morning." "Yes," she sighed, as she pressed her child close to her bosom, "I shall be better in the morning. Oh, my sweet flower! my heart's treasure! Guard her, gracious Lord! Make her life bright and happy--as mine once promised to be! I could have given love for love; but it was denied to me. Not mine the fault--not mine, not mine!"