He had been away from home, he said, and her letter had strayed in pursuit of him.

“I wondered,” said Jane, her honest eyes searching his countenance.  “And it’s so long since you sent a word; I should have written again this afternoon.”

“I’ve been abominably neglectful,” he replied, “and time goes so quickly.”

“There’s something strange in your look,” said the girl.  “What is it, I wonder?  You’ve altered in some way I don’t know how.”

“Think so? but never mind me; tell me about mother.”

They stood among the garden scents, amid the flowers, which told of parting summer, and conversed with voices softened by tender solicitude.  Jane was above all anxious that her brother’s visit should seem spontaneous, and Will promised not to hint at the news she had sent him.  They entered the house together.  Mrs. Warburton, after her usual morning occupations, had lain down on the couch in the parlour, and fallen asleep; as soon as he beheld her face, Will understood his sister’s fears, White, motionless, beautiful in its absolute calm, the visage might have been. that of the dead; after gazing for a moment, both, on the same impulse, put forth a hand to touch the unconscious form.  The eyelids rose a look of confused trouble darkened the features then the lips relaxed in a happy smile.

“Will—­and you find me asleep?—­I appeal to Jane; she will tell you it’s only an accident.  Did you ever before see me asleep like this, Jane?”

At once she rose, and moved about, and strove to be herself; but the effort it cost her was too obvious; presently she had to sit down, with tremulous limbs, and Will noticed that her forehead was moist.

Not till evening did he find it possible to lead the conversation to the subject of her health.  Jane had purposely left them alone.  Her son having said that he feared she was not so well as usual, Mrs. Warburton quietly admitted that she had recently consulted her doctor.

“I am not young, Will, you know.  Sixty-five next birthday.”

“But you don’t call that old!” exclaimed her son.

“Yes, it’s old for one of my family, dear, None of us, that I know of, lived to be much more than sixty, and most died long before.  Don’t let us wear melancholy faces,” she added, with that winning smile which had ever been the blessing of all about her.  “You and I, dear, are too sensible, I hope, to complain or be frightened because life must have an end.  When my time comes, I trust to my children not to make me unhappy by forgetting what I have always tried to teach them.  I should like to think—­and I know—­that you would be sorry to lose me; but to see you miserable on my account, or to think you miserable after I have gone—­I couldn’t bear that.”

Will was silent, deeply impressed by the calm voice, the noble thought.  He had always felt no less respect than love for his mother, especially during the latter years, when experience of life better enabled him to understand her rare qualities; but a deeper reverence took possession of him whilst she was speaking.  Her words not only extended his knowledge of her character; they helped him to an understanding of himself, to a clearer view of life, and its possibilities.