I saw Mrs. Dinah shake her head and look grave upon this, but I knew she had her full share of Cornish superstitions. I myself thought the improvement in my mother's health and spirits arose from the change of air and scene, and from the enjoyment of cheerful company. I little thought what was that joyful news she was soon to hear—joyful to her, but sad beyond conception to me. The very next morning, as I was finishing dressing, Dinah came to me, quite calm as usual, but pale as ashes. "Will you come to your mother at once?" said she. "She is very ill." I did not need a second summons. My mother lay in her bed, her eyes closed, breathing in soft sighs, and only at long intervals. My lady was already with her, applying salts to her nose and strong essences to her forehead, while old Mrs. Carey was rubbing the soles of her feet. They made way for me with looks of solemn compassion. Even then I was not alarmed. "It is a fainting fit," said I. "She used to have them in France." I bent over and kissed her, calling upon her name. She opened her eyes with a look of unutterable tenderness, and her lips moved. Then she drew one more sigh and all was still. "Come away, my dear child," said my lady, disengaging my hand from my mother's and taking it in her own. "Your dear mother is at rest." Even then I could not believe it, and I would have them try again and again to revive her, but soon the deathly chill of the hand and brow and the white lips convinced even me, and I suffered my lady to lead me away. They were all very kind. My lady took me to her dressing-room, and strove to win me to tears, for I was at first like one stunned. At last Theo's tearful caresses opened the flood-gates, and I wept myself into quietness. My lady left me to myself as much as was good for me, and no more. Mr. Penrose, the rector, came and prayed with me, and as I was able to bear it, he talked with me in a gentle and consoling way, which did me all the good in the world. He was a dry-looking, quiet elderly man, a native of Cornwall, and had remained in his parish through all the troubles and changes of the civil wars. My lord was greatly attached to him, though he thought him needlessly strict in some matters. He was a fine scholar, and the best preacher I had heard since I left France. My mother was buried in the churchyard of the old priory church among our ancestors for many generations. It was a lovely place, all green and fair with grass and great trees, and luxuriant ivy mantling the old ruins. Oh, how I wept as I thought of my father's dishonored grave. How I wished they could have slept together! But it was an idle wish. What signifies what distance divides our worn-out bodies, if only our better part—our real selves—are resting together in the Paradise of God?