The night succeeding the burial Mr. Middleton’s family, overcome with fatigue and grief, retired early to their rooms, but Fanny could not sleep, and between ten and eleven she arose and throwing on her dressing gown nervously walked up and down her sleeping room.  It was a little over a year after her marriage.  Through the closed shutters the rays of a bright September moon were stealing, and attracted by the beauty of the night, Fanny opened the blinds and the room was filled with a flood of soft, pale light.  From the window where she stood she could distinguish the little graveyard, with its cypress and willow trees, and its white monument gleaming through the silvery moonlight, and near that monument was a dark spot, the grave of her beloved mother.  “If all nights were as lovely as this,” thought she, “it would not seem half so dreary to sleep in the cold dark grave,” and then Fanny fell into a fit of musing of the night that would surely come when she would first be left alone in the shadowy graveyard.

In the midst of her reverie her attention was attracted by a slight female figure, which from some quarters had approached unperceived, and now upon the newly-made grave was bowing itself in apparent weeping.  The size and form of the girl were so much like Luce that Fanny concluded it must be she, at the same time wondering how, with her superstitious ideas, she ventured alone near a grave in the night time.  In a moment, however, she saw that Tiger, the watch dog, was with her, and at the same instant the sound of a suppressed sob fell on her ear.  “Poor Luce,” said she, “I did not think she loved my mother so well.  I will go to her and mingle my tears with hers.”

In a short time Fanny was in the open air, and on her way to the graveyard.  As she approached her mother’s grave, she said gently, “Luce, Luce, why are you out so late?”

The person addressed partially raised her head and answered hurriedly, “Oh, Fanny, Fanny, do not be frightened and leave me; I am not dead, and never was buried in that grave, as you suppose, but I am here tonight a living, repentant woman,” and throwing back her bonnet, the thin, white face of Julia Middleton was in the bright moonlight perfectly distinguishable to Fanny, who at first recoiled in fear and leaned for support against the marble pillar near which she was standing.

She, however, soon recovered her self-command and glancing at the object on the grave, saw that she was caressing Tiger, who seemed trying various ways to evince his joy at finding one whom he had long missed, for he had ever been Julia’s favorite.  Their fiery natures accorded well!  Again Julia spoke, “Fanny, dear Fanny.  In an adjoining state I heard of mother’s illness and hastened to see her, but I am too late.  Now, do not think me a phantom, for see, Tiger recognizes me and welcomes me home, and will not you?”

An instant Fanny wavered, then with a half-fearful, half-joyful cry she went forward, and by the grave of the mother that day lowered to the dust, the sisters met in a long, fervent embrace.