traight up and look at her own
face in the glass--her poor old face, which had never been beautiful,
which she had never wished beautiful, except that it might be pleasant
in one man's eyes. Sweet it was still, but the sweetness lay in its
expression, pure and placid, and innocent as a young girl's. But she saw
not that; she saw only its lost youth, its faded bloom. She covered it
over with both her hands, as if she would fain bury it out of sight;
knelt down by her bedside, and prayed.

"Mr. Roy is waiting below ma'am--has been waiting some time; but he says
if you are busy he will not disturb you; he will come to-morrow instead."

"Tell him I shall be very glad to see him to-morrow."

She spoke through the locked door, too feeble to rise and open it; and
then lying down on her bed and turning her face to the wall, from sheer
exhaustion fell fast asleep.

People dream strangely sometimes. The dream she dreamt was so
inexpressibly soothing and peaceful, so entirely out of keeping with the
reality of things, that it almost seemed to have been what in ancient
times would be called a vision.

First, she thought that she and Robert Roy were little children--mere
girl and boy together, as they might have been from the few years'
difference in their ages--running hand in hand about the sands of St.
Andrews, and so fond of one another--so very fond! With that innocent
love a big boy often has for a little girl, and a little girl returns
with the tenderest fidelity. So she did; and she was so happy--they were
both so happy. In the second part of the dream she was happy still, but
somehow she knew she was dead--had been dead and in paradise for a long
time, and was waiting for him to come there. He was coming now; she felt
him coming, and held out her hands, but he took and clasped her in his
arms; and she heard a voice saying those mysterious words: "In heaven
they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of
God."

It was very strange, all was very strange, but it comforted her. She
rose up, and in the twilight of the soft spring evening she washed her
face and combed her hair, and went down, like King David after his child
was dead, to "eat bread."

Her young people were not there. They had gone out again; she heard,
with Mr. Dalziel, not Mr. Roy, who had sat reading in the parlor alone
for upward of an hour. They were supposed to be golfing, but they staid
out till long after it was po