"You don't understand these things," rejoined Rose, with a curl upon her lip--"how should you? Has she not for months been yearning to see him--has not the pain of his cold neglect, his silence, his absence, hastened her to the grave--and, now that he is coming, you would keep it from her? Why, I tell you, Mary Carr, it will soothe her heart in dying." She broke away impetuously, and went into the bed-chamber. Adeline unclosed her eyes at her approach. What Rose said, as she leaned over her and whispered, Mary Carr could not hear; but even in that last hour, it brought the red hectic to her faded cheek. How wildly and eagerly she looked up! "But it is too late," she sighed, in a troubled whisper--"it is too late; I shall be gone. If he had but come a day earlier!" She closed her eyes again, and remained silent. The next words she uttered, some time afterwards, were to Miss Carr. "Mary--you--that which Louise was saying today----" "Yes. I understand." "If mamma wishes it--do not prevent it. I--I--should like him to see me--the wreck I am. And then he could come--you would bring him." Rose assented eagerly, before Mary Carr could speak. "And otherwise--if he had not been here--I have been reflecting--that it would answer no end to oppose my mother--what can it matter to me, then? If I--had a child--and she died--it is possible I might wish the same. Don't interfere. But--you will bring _him?_" "Dearest Adeline, YES," cried Rose, "if he is to be found. I promise it to you solemnly." "And now--dear friends of my girlhood, Rose! Mary!" she breathed, holding out her hands, "I have but to say farewell. All things are growing dim around me. You know not how grateful I have been for your care of me. You will think of me sometimes in after-life." The pause that ensued was only broken by Rose's sobs. Mary Carr's aching grief was silent. "Remember--you especially, Rose--that life--will not last for ever--but--there is one beyond it; _that_ will. Endeavour to inherit it. Will you not kiss me for the last time?" They leaned over her, one by one, their aching hearts beating against the counterpane, the tears raining from their eyes. "You--will--come--to me--in heaven?" Barely had the words left her lips--and they were the last that either of them heard her utter--when Louise, with a solemn face, full of mighty importance, threw the corridor door wide open, and whispered something which only the nurse caught. She jumped up, thrust her chair behind her, and dropped down upon her knees where she stood. "What in the world has taken her?" ejaculated Rose. "Don't you understand?" was Mary's hurried answer, drawing Rose after her, and escaping to the drawing-room.