“And this did not make you love and respect Lucy the less, my sister?  But do not answer; so much conversing must distress you.”

“Not at all, Miles.  I speak without suffering, nor does the little talking I do enfeeble me in the least.  When I appear exhausted, it is from the feelings which accompany our discourse.  I talk much, very much, with dear Lucy, who hears me with more patience than yourself, brother!”

I knew that this remark applied to Grace’s wish to dwell on the unknown future, and did not receive it as a reproach in any other sense.  As she seemed calm, however, I was willing to indulge her wish to converse with me, so long as she dwelt on subjects that did not agitate her.  Speaking of her hopes of heaven had a contrary effect, and I made no further opposition.

“Lucy’s hesitation to be under the obligations you mention did not lessen her in your esteem?” I repeated.

“You know it could not, Miles.  Lucy is a dear, good girl; and the more intimately one knows her, the more certain is one to esteem her.  I have every reason to bless and pray for Lucy; still, I desire you not to make either her or her father acquainted with my bequest.”

“Rupert would hardly conceal such a thing from so near and dear friends.”

“Let Rupert judge of the propriety of that for himself.  Kiss me, brother; do not ask to see me again to-day, for I have much to arrange with Lucy; to-morrow I shall expect a long visit.  God bless you, my own, dear,—­my only brother, and ever have you in his holy keeping!”

I left the room as Chloe entered; and, in threading the long passage that led to the apartment which was appropriated to my own particular purposes, as an office, cabinet, or study, I met Lucy near the door of the latter.  I could see she had been weeping, and she followed me into the room.

“What do you think of her, Miles?” the dear girl asked, uttering the words in a tone so low and plaintive as to say all that she anticipated herself.

“We shall lose her, Lucy; yes, ’tis God’s pleasure to call her to himself.”

Had worlds depended on the effort, I could not have got out another syllable.  The feelings which had been so long pent up in Grace’s presence broke out, and I am not ashamed to say that I wept and sobbed like an infant.

How kind, how woman-like, how affectionate did Lucy show herself at that bitter moment.  She said but little, though I think I overheard her murmuring “poor Miles!”—­“poor, dear Miles!”—­“what a blow it must be to a brother!”—­“God will temper this loss to him!” and other similar expressions.  She took one of my hands and pressed it warmly between both her own; held it there for two or three minutes; hovered round me, as the mother keeps near its slumbering infant when illness renders rest necessary; and seemed more like a spirit sympathizing with my grief than a mere observer of its violence.