So passed the winter and the spring. Though Mrs. Clifton failed visibly from day to day, she still continued her rides around the farm, and her general supervision of the household and of agricultural affairs, and her instructions to Catherine. Her people, who well knew the nearly hopeless state of her health, foretold that their mistress would keep up and out to the very last—and finally die in her chair. Indeed, while flesh and blood wasted away, her nervous energy seemed unimpaired, and her cheerfulness was undiminished. She talked of her approaching departure as calmly and pleasantly as she would have talked of going to Richmond. Never obtruding the subject, however, unless necessity demanded its introduction. The serenity and cheerfulness of the lady affected Catherine very beneficially—“familiarizing” to her feelings the future, immortal life. Catherine endeavored to persuade her to have a physician. “Why, so I would, Kate, if I had any specific disease; but when all the frame is wearing out together very slowly and quietly, why call in a doctor to disturb the harmony of natural decay, and painfully build up one portion of the sinking frame at the expense of another? Why not fade and fall easily, as all else in benign nature does?” Catherine next suggested writing for Major Clifton to hasten home. “Why, my child? Why, because I am going the common road, should others be hurried and worried? Everything in blessed nature and Divine Revelation teaches us a sweeter lesson. No—Archer set out for a twelve months’ tour; let him complete it. He will return this autumn. Quite time enough, Catherine. I shall live till then, and longer. I can calculate the progress of my body’s failing, and the duration of my life, with almost mathematical precision. I shall live to meet Archer, and to see you married, Catherine—and to leave you willing to survive me and be happy without me. And why not, dear? for shall I not be happier still?” And so, in sweet mutual confidence, in cheerful resignation, and in patient hope, the summer passed, and autumn arrived in its glory. CHAPTER XXIX. THE RETURN. Come home!—there is a sorrowing breath In music since ye went, And fragrant flower scents wander by With mournful memories blent. The tones of every household voice Are grown more sad and deep— And longing for thee wakes a wish To turn aside and weep. Oh, ye beloved! come home!—the hour Of many a greeting tone, The time of hearth-light and of song Returns and ye are gone! And darkly, heavily it falls On the forsaken room, Burdening the heart with tenderness That deepens into gloom.—MRS. HEMANS.