I pressed the dying girl closer to my heart, a species of involuntary declaration of the difficulty I experienced in regarding her loss with the religious philosophy she was inculcating.

“Mourn not for me, Miles”—­she continued—­“yet I know you will mourn.  But God will temper the blow, and in his mercy may cause it to profit you for ever.”

I did not, could not answer.  I saw Grace endeavouring to get a look at my countenance, as if to observe the effect of the scene.  By my assistance she was so placed as to obtain her wish.  The sight, I believe, aroused feelings that had begun to yield to the influence of the last great change; for, when my sister spoke next, it was with a tenderness of accent that proved how hard it for those who are deeply affectionate to lose their instincts.

“Poor Miles!  I almost wish we could go together!  You have been a dear, good brother to me”—­(What a sweet consolation I afterwards found in these words)—­“It grieves me to leave you so nearly alone in the world.  But you will have Mr. Hardinge, and our Lucy—­”

The pause, and the look that succeeded, caused a slight tremour to pass over my frame.  Grace’s eyes turned anxiously from me to the form of the kneeling and weeping Lucy.  I fancied that she was about to express a wish, or some regret, in connection with us two, that even at such a moment I could not have heard without betraying the concern it would give me.  She did not speak, however, though her look was too eloquent to be mistaken.  I ascribed the forbearance to the conviction that it would be too late, Lucy’s affections belonging to Andrew Drewett.  At that instant I had a bitter remembrance of Neb’s words of “I sometime wish, Masser Mile, you and I nebber had see salt water.”  But that was not the moment to permit such feelings to get the mastery; and Grace, herself, felt too clearly that her minutes were numbered to allow her mind to dwell on the subject.

“An Almighty Providence will direct everything for the best, in this as in other things,” she murmured; though it was still some little time, I thought, before her mind reverted to her own situation.  The welfare of two as much beloved as Lucy and myself, could not be a matter of indifference to one of Grace’s disposition, even in the hour of death.

Mr. Hardinge now knelt, and the next quarter of an hour passed in prayer.  When the divine rose from his knees, Grace, her countenance beaming with an angelic serenity, gave him her hand, and in a clear, distinct voice, she uttered a prayer for blessings, connecting her petitions with the gratitude due him, for his care of us orphans.  I never saw the old man so much touched before.  This unexpected benediction, for it had that character, coming from youth to age, quite unmanned him.  The old man sunk into a chair, weeping uncontrollably.  This aroused Lucy, who regarded the grey hairs of her father with awe, as she witnessed the strength of his emotions.  But feelings of this nature could not long absorb a man like Mr. Hardinge, who soon regained as much of the appearance of composure as it was possible to maintain by such a death-bed.