her own dark creed—­(Alas! the Amina had offered unto Juggernaut, and Emily of the strong hill-fort had scarcely heard of any truer God; and the fair girl was a woman-grown before, in her first earthly love, she also came to know the mercies Heaven has in store for us)—­whether unto any lasting use she prayed and reasoned with that hard, dried heart, none but the Omniscient can tell.  Let us hope:  let us hope; for the fretful voice was stilled, and the cloudy forehead brightened, and the haggard eyes looked cheerfully to meet the inevitable stroke of death.  Thus in wisdom and in charity, in patience and in faith, that gentle pair of lovers comforted the dying soul.

However, days rolled away, and Aunt Green lingered on still, tenaciously clinging unto life:  until one morning early, she felt so much better, that she insisted on being propped up by pillows, and seeing all the household round her bed to speak to them.  So up came every one, in no small hope of legacies, and what the lawyers call “donationes mortis causa.”

The general was at her bed’s-head, with, I am ashamed to say, perhaps unconsciously, a countenance more ridiculous than lugubrious; though he tried to subdue the buoyancy of hope and to put on looks of decent mourning; on the other side, the long-expectant legatee, Niece Jane, prudently concealed her questionable grief behind a scented pocket-handkerchief.  Julian held somewhat aloof, for the scene was too depressing for his taste:  so he affected to read a prayer-book, wrong way up, with his tongue in his cheek:  Charles, deeply solemnized at the near approach of death, knelt at the poor invalid’s bedside; and Emily stood by, leaning over her, suffused in tears.  At the further corners of the bed, might be seen an old servant or two; and Mrs. Green’s butler and coachman, each a forty years’ fixture, presented their gray heads at the bottom of the room, and really looked exceedingly concerned.

Mrs. Green addressed them first, in her feeble broken manner:  “Grant—­and John—­good and faithful—­thank you—­thank you both; and you too, kind Mrs. Lloyd, and Sally, and nurse—­what’s-your-name:  give them the packets, nurse—­all marked—­first drawer, desk:  there—­there—­God bless you—­good—­faithful.”

The old servants, full of sorrow at her approaching loss, were comforted too:  for a kind word, and a hundred pound note a-piece, made amends for much bereavement:  the sick-nurse found her gift was just a tithe of their’s, and recognised the difference both just and kind.

“Niece Jane—­you’ve waited—­long—­for—­this day:  my will—­rewards you.”

“O dear—­dear aunt, pray don’t talk so; you’ll recover yet, pray—­pray don’t:”  she pretended to drown the rest in sorrow, but winked at her husband over the handkerchief.

“Julian!” (the precious youth attempted to look miserable, and came as called,) “you will find—­I have remembered—­you, Julian.”  So he winked, too, at his mother, and tried to blubber a “thank you.”