Are these always illusions?  Or is it only that, as the twilight deepens, and the shapes of earth melt into night, the stars of heaven, changeless and serene, reveal themselves, and shine out to the darkened eyes of mortals?

As Aunt Becky sat that night in the drawing-room with her niece, a maid, with a whisper, placed a little note in Miss Gertrude’s hand.  There was a little pause.

‘Oh! aunt—­oh!’ and she looked so terrified.  ‘Oh! aunt,’ and she threw her arms round her aunt’s neck, and began crying wildly.  ’Poor Lily’s gone—­there’s the note.’

Then arose the wild wailing of unavailing grief, and sobs, mixed with early recollections of childhood, and all poor Lily’s sweet traits poured out.

Old Aunt Rebecca took the note.  Her stoicism was the point on which she piqued herself most.  She looked very pale, and she told her niece to be composed; for Aunt Becky had a theory that feelings ought to be commanded, and that it only needed effort and resolution.  So she read the note, holding her head very high, but the muscles of her face were quivering.

’Oh!  Gertrude, if ever there was an angel—­and the poor desolate old man——­’

The theory broke down, and old Aunt Rebecca cried and sat down, and cried heartily, and went and put her thin arms round her niece, and kissed her, and cried, and cried, and kissed her again.

’She was such—­such a darling—­oh!  Gertrude dear, we must never quarrel any more.’

Death had come so near, and all things less than itself were rebuked in that sublime presence; and Lily Walsingham was gone; and she who was so lately their gay companion, all at once so awfully angelic in the unearthly light of death.

‘Who’d ha’ thought it was so near, Ma’am,’ said the maid; ’the poor little thing!  Though to be sure, Ma’am, a winding sheet came three times in the candle last night, and I turns it round and picks it off, that way, with my nail, unknownst to Mrs. Heany, for fear she’d be frettin’ about the little boy that’s lyin’ at home in the small-pox; and indeed I thought ’twas for him it was; but man proposes, and God disposes—­and death forgets none, the Lord be praised—­and everyone has their hour, old and young, Ma’am; and as I was sayin’, they had no notion or expectation up at the Elms, Ma’am, she was so bad, the heavens be her bed this night.  ’Twas all in an instant like, Miss, she made as if she’d sit up, bein’ leanin’ on pillows—­and so she put out them purty little hands of hers, with a smile, and that was all—­the purty crature—­everyone’s sorry afther her.  The man was cryin’ in the hall that brought the note.’

The poor came to the door, and made their rude and kindly lamentations—­they were all quite sincere—­’His reverence was very good, but he couldn’t have the thought, you know.’  It was quite true—­’everyone was sorry.’  The brave Magnolia’s eyes were red, when she looked out of the window next morning, and jolly little Doctor Toole said at the club—­