“Poor Martha!” he said to himself, as he glanced at his shining coat-sleeves, and the spot on the knee of his pants, which was almost threadbare, and at his boots, which certainly had not been blacked that day.  “Poor Martha!  What would she say if she could see these clothes, which, though they may not look well, are very comfortable.”  Then, as his eye rested upon the word beloved, he continued:  “Is that a lie, I wonder, which that marble is telling to the world?  If so, it is Martha’s fault, for she wrote her own epitaph, just as she ordered all the details of her funeral, and what preceded it.  It was a strange fancy of hers to ask that Hannah should lay her out Poor Martha! Devoted would have been better than beloved, though God knows I tried to do my best by her,” and with a sigh, both for what had been and what might have been, the rector arose and started for his home, meeting at the gate of Grey’s Park with Grey himself, who was in Allington for the first time since his return from Europe.

Lucy had come up a few days before, and had been at once to see Bessie, of whose illness she had written to Grey, and that had brought him as soon as he could leave his mother.

“Grey, my boy, how are you?” the rector said, offering his hand, which Grey took, saying as he did so: 

“How is she this morning?”

Mr. Sanford did not know that Grey had ever seen or heard of Bessie McPherson, but something told him that he meant her, and he replied: 

“Very weak and sick.  Poor girl! she is too young to die.”

“Mr. Sanford,” and Grey spoke with great vehemence, “you do not think Bessie will die?  She must not die!” and in his voice and manner there was something which betrayed his secret to the older man, who said to him: 

“I hope not, Grey, God knows.  Pray for her, my boy; pray earnestly.  Prayer can move a mountain, or at least make a way through it.  Pray for the girl you call Bessie.”

To one accustomed as Grey was to take everything, however small, to God, prayer was an easy thing, and every thought was a prayer as he walked rapidly toward Miss McPherson’s house.

“She is sleeping now,” Miss Betsey said to him.  “We trust she will be better when she wakens.  It is rest she needs more than anything else.  She has had a hard life so far.  You have seen a great deal of her, I believe?”

“I cannot say I have seen a great deal of her, though I feel as though I had known her always.  Yes, she has had a hard life.  You do not think she will die?” was Grey’s reply; and in his face and voice Miss Betsey detected what the rector had discovered.

“No,” she said; “I do not believe she will die.  Sit down and wait till she is awake.”

So Grey sat down, and waited three hours, during which time the train, which would have taken him back to Boston, went rushing by, and Bessie still slept as quietly as an infant.  It was Jennie who came at last and told him that she was awake and better, though too weak to see any one.