that you do. She's a woman of
society, you know.'

'But if she's mother's sister. Yes, I should like to know her.' Nancy
spoke with increasing earnestness. 'It makes everything quite different.
I must see her.'

'Well, as I said, she's quite willing. But you remember that I'm
supposed not to have spoken about her at all. I should have to get her
to send you a message, or something of that kind. Of course, we have
often talked about you.'

'I can't form an idea of her,' said Nancy impatiently. 'Is she good? Is
she really kind? Couldn't you get her portrait to show me?'

'I should be afraid to ask, unless she had given me leave to speak to
you.'

'She really lives in good society?'

'Haven't I told you the sort of people she knows? She must be very well
off; there can't be a doubt of it.'

I don't care so much about that,' said Nancy in a brooding voice. 'It's
herself,--whether she's kind and good and wishes well to us.

The next day there was no change in Mr. Lord's condition; a deep silence
possessed the house. In the afternoon Nancy went to pass an hour with
Jessica Morgan; on her return she met Samuel Barmby, who was just
leaving after a visit to the sick man. Samuel bore himself with
portentous gravity, but spoke only a few commonplaces, affecting hope;
he bestowed upon Nancy's hand a fervent pressure, and strode away with
the air of an undertaker who had called on business.

Two more days of deepening gloom, then a night through which Nancy sat
with Mary Woodruff by her father's bed. Mr. Lord was unconscious, but
from time to time a syllable or a phrase fell from his lips, meaningless
to the watchers. At dawn, Nancy went to her chamber, pallid, exhausted.
Mary, whose strength seemed proof against fatigue, moved about the room,
preparing for a new day; every few minutes she stood with eyes fixed
on the dying face, and the tears she had restrained in Nancy's presence
flowed silently.

When the sun made a golden glimmer upon the wall, Mary withdrew, and was
absent for a quarter of an hour. On returning, she bent at once over the
bed; her eyes were met by a grave, wondering look.

'Do you know me?' she whispered.

The lips moved; she bent lower, but could distinguish no word. He was
speaking; the murmur continued; but she gathered no sense.

'You can trust me, I will do all I can.'

He seemed to understand her, and smiled. As the smile faded away,
passing into an austere calm, Mary pressed her lips upo