The same night, Captain Fairfax wrote to Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, to go over to White Cliffs and prepare to receive the invalid. And from that day Zuleime revived, and by the first of June was so much better, as to be able to be placed in the comfortable family carriage, in which, sometimes reclining upon downy cushions, sometimes resting upon the bosom of her husband, and supported by his arms, she traveled by easy stages to White Cliffs. They reached the end of their journey upon the afternoon of the third day. Mrs. Clifton and Catherine were there to receive them. Zuleime was lifted out of the carriage, very much exhausted. Yet, as she was gently carried through the yard, her eyes roved gladly over all the dear familiar scene—over mountains, fields and forests, clothed now in the luxuriant foliage of June—and all her countenance lighted up with joy, and she exclaimed many times in tones of profound gratitude— “Thank God! oh, thank God!” She was carried up stairs, and put to bed at once. And Catherine was stationed to watch her slumbers, while Mrs. Clifton remained below to attend to the comfort of the tired travelers. But Zuleime frequently awoke with a joyful start and recollection; and once she put her hand in that of Kate, and said— “Dear Kate! blessed Kate! I am so glad to see you again! And so very glad to be _home_ again! Sweet Sister of Mercy! will you stay and nurse _me_ also? I think you could almost cure me! Sweet, unprofessed nun, will you stay and nurse me, too?” “Yes, dear Zuleime, I will stay as long as you want me. But shut those tired eyes, love, and go to sleep.” “Yes, seal each eyelid down with a kiss, dear Kate, and then they will stay closed. And hold my hand as I go to sleep—I feel so safe when some one I love holds my hand while I slumber. I feel as if they could keep me in life while I slept, for you must know, dear Kate, that my heart has a morbid action, and some of these days I shall fall asleep lightly as now, but never awake again.” “Dear Zuleime, you must not indulge such fancies.” “They are not fancies, they are realities. I do not deceive myself and trifle with you, Kate. Do not you deceive me or trifle with me, either. There are secrets of life and death known only to the dying. Such a secret is mine. I know that I shall lightly drop asleep some day, and never wake again—that is the reason I wish some one I love to kiss my eyelids down, and to hold my hand while I slumber.” The words, the manner of the dying girl carried deep conviction to the heart of Catherine, and— “Oh! Zuleime,” she said, “lean upon the failing arm of flesh if you will, but, oh, seek! seek the support of that Almighty arm that can sustain you in life and in death! Seek that!”