ping girl, whose sobs seemed as though they would break her heart.

We got her put to bed at once, but it was some hours before her
convulsive sobbing ceased. Mrs. Temple had administered to her a
soothing draught of proved efficacy, and after sitting with her till
after one o'clock, I left her at last dozing off to sleep, and myself
sought repose. I was quite wearied out with the weight of my anxiety,
and with the crushing bitterness of seeing my dearest Constance's
feelings so wounded. Yet in spite, or rather perhaps on account of my
trouble, my head had scarcely touched my pillow ere I fell into a deep
sleep.

A room in the south wing had been converted for the nonce into a
nursery, and for the convenience of being near her infant Constance now
slept in a room adjoining. As this portion of the house was somewhat
isolated, Mrs. Temple had suggested that I should keep her daughter
company, and occupy a room in the same passage, only removed a few
doors, and this I had accordingly done. I was aroused from my sleep that
night by some one knocking gently on the door of my bedroom; but it was
some seconds before my thoughts became sufficiently awake to allow me to
remember where I was. There was some moonlight, but I lighted a candle,
and looking at my watch saw that it was two o'clock. I concluded that
either Constance or her baby was unwell, and that the nurse needed my
assistance. So I left my bed, and moving to the door, asked softly who
was there. It was, to my surprise, the voice of Constance that replied,
"O Sophy, let me in."

In a second I had opened the door, and found my poor sister wearing only
her night-dress, and standing in the moonlight before me.

She looked frightened and unusually pale in her white dress and with the
cold gleam of the moon upon her. At first I thought she was walking in
her sleep, and perhaps rehearsing again in her dreams the troubles which
dogged her waking footsteps. I took her gently by the arm, saying,
"Dearest Constance, come back at once to bed; you will take cold."

She was not asleep, however, but made a motion of silence, and said in
a terrified whisper, "Hush; do you hear nothing?" There was something
so vague and yet so mysterious in the question and in her evident
perturbation that I was infected too by her alarm. I felt myself shiver,
as I strained my ear to catch if possible the slightest sound. But a
complete silence pervaded everything: I could hear nothing.

"Can