She shook her golden head a little sadly.

“No, doctor, my sand has run out, and perhaps it as as well.  Give me the child—­why do you keep the child away from me?  It is the messenger sent to call me to a happier world.  Yes, she is an angel messenger.  When I am gone, see that you call her ‘Angela,’ so that I may know by what name to greet her when the time comes.”

During the course of the morning, she expressed a strong desire to see Maria Lee, who was accordingly sent for.

It will be remembered that old Mr. Caresfoot had on the previous day, immediately after Hilda had left him, sat down and written to Maria Lee.  In this note he told her the whole shameful truth, ending it with a few words of bitter humiliation and self-reproach that such a thing should have befallen her at the hands of one bearing his name.  Over the agony of shame and grief thus let loose upon this unfortunate girl we will draw a veil.  It is fortunate for the endurance of human reason that life does not hold many such hours as that through which she passed after the receipt of this letter.  As was but natural, notwithstanding old Mr. Caresfoot’s brief vindication of Hilda’s conduct in his letter, Maria was filled with indignation at what to herself she called her treachery and deceit.

While she was yet full of these thoughts, a messenger came galloping over from Bratham Abbey, bringing a note from Dr. Caley that told her of her old friend’s sudden death, and of Hilda’s dangerous condition, and her desire to see her.  The receipt of this news plunged her into a fresh access of grief, for she had grown fond of the old man; nor had the warm affection for Hilda that had found a place in her gentle heart been altogether wrenched away; and, now that she heard that her rival was face to face with that King of Terrors before whom all earthly love, hate, hope, and ambition must fall down and cease their troubling, it revived in all its force; nor did any thought of her own wrongs come to chill it.

Within half an hour she was at the door of the Abbey House, where the doctor met her, and, in answer to her eager question, told her that, humanly speaking, it was impossible her friend could live through another twenty-four hours, adding an injunction that she must not stay with her long.

She entered the sick-room with a heavy heart, and there from Hilda’s dying lips she heard the story of her marriage and of Philip’s perfidy.  Their reconciliation was as complete as her friend’s failing voice and strength would allow.  At length she tore herself away, and, turning at the door, took her last look at Hilda, who had raised herself upon her elbow, and was gazing at her retreating form with an earnestness that was very touching.  The eyes, Maria felt, were taking their fill of what they looked upon for the last time in this world.  Catching her tearful gaze, the dying woman smiled, and, lifting her hand, pointed upwards.  Thus they parted.