That night seemed to me very strange. There was no rest and no silence. What could every one be doing? I heard the opening and closing of the doors, the sound of many footsteps in the dead of the night. I heard the galloping of horses and a carriage stop at the hall door. I thank Heaven even now that I did not connect these things with the illness of my mother. Such a strange night! and when morning light came there was no nurse to dress me. I lay wondering until, at last, Emma came, her face pale, her eyes swollen with tears. "What has been the matter?" I cried. "Oh, Emma, what a strange night it has been! I have heard all kinds of noises. Has anything been wrong?" "No, my dear," she replied. But I felt quite sure she was keeping something from me. "Emma, you should not tell stories!" I cried, so vehemently that she was startled. "You know how Heaven punished Ananias and Saphira for their wickedness." "Hush, missie!" said my good nurse; "I have told no stories--I speak the truth; there is nothing wrong. See, I want you to have your breakfast here in your room this morning, and then Sir Roland wants you." "How is mamma?" I asked. "You shall go to her afterward," was the evasive reply. "But how is she?" I persisted. "You do not say how she is." "I am not my lady's maid, missie," she replied. And then my heart sank. She would not tell a story, and she could not say my mother was better. My breakfast was brought, but I could not eat it; my heart was heavy, and then Emma said it was time I went to papa. When the door of my room was opened the silence that reigned over the house struck me with a deadly chill. What was it? There was no sound--no bells ringing, no footsteps, no cheery voices; even the birds that mamma loved were all quiet--the very silence and quiet of death seemed to hang over the place. I could feel the blood grow cold in my veins, my heart grow heavy as lead, my face grew pale as death, but I would say no more of my fears to Emma. She opened the library door, where she said Sir Roland was waiting for me, and left me there. I went in and sprang to my father's arms--my own clasped together round his neck--looking eagerly in his face. Ah, me! how changed it was from the handsome, laughing face of yesterday--so haggard, so worn, so white, and I could see that he had shed many tears. "My little Laura--my darling," he said, "I have something to tell you--something which has happened since you bade dear mamma good-night." "Oh, not to her!" I cried, in an agony of tears; "not to her!" "Mamma is living," he said, and I broke from his arms. I flung myself in an agony of grief on the ground. Those words, "Mamma is living," seemed to me only little less terrible than those I had dreaded to hear-- "Mamma is dead." Ah, my darling, it would have been better had you died then.