“’Yes; two are gone.  Their part is played and over.  I presume they are at rest.’

“A passing remark followed, in which a hope was expressed that I should see her at church.

“’Never, until I’m brought there.  I shouldn’t know myself in such a place, nor would those who assemble there know me.’

“While framing my reply she continued—­

“’Your visit, sir, is wholly unexpected; I have never troubled the clergy, and I hope they will not trouble me; I have my sorrows, and I keep them to myself.’

“‘They will overwhelm you unless aid be granted—­’

“She interrupted me.

“’I seek it not, and therefore have no right to expect it.  But why should I detain you sir,’ said she, rising from her seat; ’there are others who may prize your presence more than I do.’

“One of Wilson’s little volumes was in my hand.  I proffered it with the remark—­’You will perhaps read this in my absence?’

“She declined it with a gesture of impatience.

“’No! no!  I seldom read, and my hourly endeavor now is not to think!  This way lies your road, sir.  Farewell.’

“A more thoroughly unsatisfactory interview it is scarcely possible to imagine.

“Two years had rolled away, when, one morning, a message reached me that ‘Dame Lassiter was ill,’ and wished I would ’call in the course of the day.’  Within the hour came another summons:  ’Dame Lassiter was much worse,’ and begged to ‘see me without delay.’  Before midday I was at the cottage.  Her sole attendant,—­a bold, saucy, harsh looking girl of eighteen,—­awaited me at the threshold.

“‘Right glad am I you’re come,’ was her greeting; ’the mistress, sir, has been asking for you ever since day-break.’

“‘She is worse then?’

“She lowered her voice to a whisper, and continued:—­

“’She’s going!  She’ll not hold it long.  The doctors have given her up, and there’s no more medicine to be gone for.  This last is a sure sign.’

“‘Is she sensible?’

“The girl hesitated.

“‘In times she be,’ was her reply, rather doubtfully given! ’in times she be; but there’s something about her I don’t quite fancy; the plain fact is, she’s rather quair, and I shall go up to the village.  You’ll not mind being alone, I dare say?’

“And without waiting for a reply this careful and considerate attendant hurriedly opened the door; went out; and then locked it briskly and firmly on the outside.  I was a prisoner, and my companion a dying woman!  For the moment I felt startled; but a hollow moan of anguish, sadly and painfully reiterated in the chamber above, at once recalled me to my duties, and bade me seek the sufferer.  In a room of fair dimensions lay, stricken and emaciated, the once active and dauntless Abigail.  On entering I could with difficulty disguise my surprise at the variety of articles which it contained, and at the