“Are you asleep?”

He made no answer, and, unwilling to arouse him, she sat down on the step to wait until he finished his nap.

As the moon went down a light breeze sprang from some blue depths of the far west, and began to skim the frail foamy clouds that drifted imperceptibly across the star-lit sky; and to the crystal fingers of the dew the numerous flowers in the garden below yielded a generous tribute of perfume that blended into a wave of varied aromas, and rolled to and fro in the cool night air.  Calm, sweet and holy, the night seemed a very benison, dispensing peace.

Watching the white fire of constellations burning in the vault above her, Regina wondered whether it were a fair night far out at sea, if the same glittering stellar clusters swung above the deck of the noble vessel that had been for many days upon the ocean, or if the storm fiend held cyclone carnival upon the distant Atlantic.

Her thoughts wandered toward the future, that terra incognita which Mr. Lindsay’s vague words—­“There are trials ahead of you”—­had peopled with dread yet intangible phantoms, whose spectral shadows solemnly presageful, hovered over even the present.  Why was her own history a sealed volume—­her father a mystery—­her mother a wanderer in foreign lands?

From this most unprofitable train of reflection she was gradually recalled by the restless singular behaviour of her dog.  He had been lying near the table, with his head on his paws, but rose, whined, came close to his mistress and caught her sleeve between his teeth—­his usual mode of attracting her attention.

“What is it, Hero?  Are you hungry?”

He barked, ran to the easy chair, rubbed his nose against the pastor’s hand, came back whining to Regina, and finally returning to the chair, sat down, bent his head to the pastor’s feet and uttered a prolonged and dismal howl.

An undefinable horror made the girl spring toward the chair.

The sleeper had not moved, and stooping over she put her hand on his forehead.  The cold damp touch terrified her, and with a cry of “Hannah!  Oh, Hannah!” she darted into the library, and seized the lamp.  By its light held close to the quiet figure, she saw that the eyes were closed as in slumber, and the lips half parted, as though in dreaming he had smiled; but the features were rigid, the hands stiff and cold, and she could feel no flutter in the wrists or temples.

“Oh, my God! he is dead!” screamed Hannah, wringing her hands, and uttering a succession of shrieks, while like a statue of despair the girl stood staring almost vacantly at the white placid face of the dead.  At last, shuddering from head to foot, she exclaimed: 

“Run for Dr. Melville!  Run, Hannah! you can go faster now than I could.”

“What is the use?  He is dead! stone dead!”

“Perhaps not—­he may revive.  Oh, Hannah! why don’t you go?”