Mrs. Barr still sat by the window. The pure radiance of the moon lay full upon the hands clasped in her lap, the Quaker cap which framed in that lovely old face—and the muslin neckerchief folded over her bosom. Catharine, with a sigh of infinite relief, went up to the easy-chair. She was not asleep—not even in pain. Those kind, blue eyes were open—that gentle mouth had a smile upon it. She was resting, Catharine thought, nothing more—evidently resting, and did not wish to be disturbed. Had she not asked to be left alone? Catharine moved softly to a shadowy part of the room and sat down, holding her very breath, in fear of disturbing the sick woman, who had not cared to recognize her presence. The music from down-stairs rose to her faintly. Sometimes the dying echo of a laugh came floating upward; but after a while, all this ceased; then the stillness in the room oppressed her. Again Catharine arose and went close to Mrs. Barr’s chair. “Have you had a good rest, dear mother?” she whispered, bending close to the motionless head. There was no answer—no sign, no breath that she could hear or feel. She saw the eyes turned to the open window—the smile still hovering about those lips; but she also saw that the whole face had turned whiter than whiteness. The awful silence of the grave was there, and she knew that her best friend had passed over the “dark waters” when that shock fell upon her, breaking up alike her hopes and her prayers. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE. A few old houses still remain among the villas, hotels, and cottages that make Staten Island a little Eden. Many of these are on the shore, and not being so accessible as these modern structures, are of course less known. One of these buildings, situated almost in the verge of the Island, surrounded by groves of primeval trees, fruit-orchards, and flowing thickets, must now become the scene of our story.