But on the evening of the second rainy day, while Captain Fairfax and Catherine sat with Zuleime, and all the other members of the family were assembled in the summer saloon, the door of the latter was quietly opened, and Major Clifton stood before the astonished circle. His mother advanced to meet and welcome him. Then she noticed—and they all noticed, that he was clothed in deep mourning. That told the tale! They welcomed him with affectionate sympathy, but no one asked a question. Nor did he as yet volunteer a word of his sorrow’s history. It was only the next day that his mother learned from him how deceptive was the seeming convalescence of his wife—how from the day of their embarkation her strength declined—how for weeks their hearts fluctuated between hope and fear, as with the changes of her flattering disease she seemed better or worse—how when all thought of life was gone, but one earthly hope possessed her soul—to die _at home_;—of the waning of that last hope—of the death at sea—and, finally, of the lone grave in the ocean isle, where slept the mortal remains of the haughtiest beauty that ever trod the halls of a palace. They would willingly have concealed the fact of her sister’s decease from the dying girl—no one ventured to tell her of the event—they fondly believed that she remained in ignorance of it. But she knew it all from what she saw and heard. She knew that Major Clifton had returned alone, and she surmised the rest from the sad and tearful faces of all around her. Yes, she knew it all, as well as any could have made her know it, and in the tender thoughtfulness of her soul, she would not distress any by asking them questions relating to the last moment. But from this hour she sank rapidly. She could no longer be lifted from her bed without fainting. In deep trouble, Captain Fairfax summoned the old family physician. When he came, and saw the patient, his opinion was decidedly formed, and truthfully given—he said that the Richmond physician had evidently abandoned the case as hopeless, when he sent her home to die—that her life had probably been prolonged by her residence in the country—but that nothing could have saved her—and that she had now not many days to live. Captain Fairfax was almost mad with grief—and all the self-possession and self-control that he had learned in the long attendance upon her sick bed well nigh deserted him. It was many hours before he was sufficiently composed to take his usual place by her bedside, and then his agonized countenance betrayed the extent of his suffering. Catherine was sitting by her when he entered. Zuleime raised her dying eyes, and looking at him, tenderly beckoned him to approach. Then she motioned Catherine to leave her. When they were alone—she laid her hand within his own, and looking at him with unutterable love, said—