It was a strange new life that began for Queenie. The links that united her to the old had been suddenly snapped asunder, and she had drifted away into a quiet changeless existence, which seemed almost as unreal as a dream. It was as though she had no separate individuality or life of her own; her only existence was Emmie, her one thought from morning to night how to gratify the child's capricious whims. When Emmie opened her eyes on waking she always saw her sister by her bedside; she would stoop over and touch her lips with the fresh, dewy flowers she had in her hand--violets or primroses, or, later on, lilies of the valley and fragrant tea-roses. Emmie loved the roses best. "I have been out for my morning walk, and look what I have brought you!" Queenie would say. It was always so, always the same surprise, the same sweet morning greeting, the same loving smile; and so it was through the day. Strangers began to comment on the tall, graceful girl who drove out her little sister day after day in the pony-carriage, or, as Emmie's strength failed, walked by the side of the Bath chair, where the little frail figure seemed to be lost and hidden. How Emmie loved to watch the ships and the little brown fishing-smacks! The shifting groups on the esplanade pleased and amused her; the music on the pier charmed her. As the daylight faded away, and the waves grew solemn and grey in the twilight, she would lie on her couch contentedly for hours, while Queenie read or sung to her and told her the simple tales of her own production. "I never dared to think; I just prayed, and so my little stock of daily strength was recruited, like the widow's cruse," Queenie said very simply long afterwards to one who questioned her of that sad summer. "Life just then meant Emmie to me, and nothing else." It was true; she never dared to think. Week by week and month by month the brave-hearted girl crushed down the dull aching pain of weary suspense and doubt; month by month she bore the loneliness of that sad watching, with the end plainly before her, and yet no complaint of her bitter load of trouble harassed the kind hearts of the friends she had left. Very brief and touching were her few letters to Langley; but they told little save the record of their daily life--"Emmie was no better, or a little weaker," and that was all. One day, about two months after they had been settled at St. Leonards, a letter came from Garth. The sight of the handwriting made Queenie tremble with sudden emotion; but her face soon paled and saddened as she read it. It was brief, but kind, and had evidently been written with great care. It spoke of the death of their uncle, who was almost a stranger to his nephews and nieces, but who had taken a fancy to Garth in his last illness and had left him his little all.