id he, starting.

The old woman picked up the manuscripts and smoothed them carefully.

"Ah, sir, he bade me place these papers here. He thought they might keep
you from fretting about him, in case you would sit up and wake. And he
had a thought of me, too; for I have so pined to find out the poor young
lady, who left them years ago. She was almost as dear to me as he is;
dearer perhaps until now--when--when I am about to lose him!"

Leonard turned from the papers, without a glance at their contents: they
had no interest for him at such a moment. The hostess went on,

"Perhaps she is gone to heaven before him; she did not look like one
long for this world. She left us so suddenly. Many things of hers
besides these papers are still, here; but I keep them aired and dusted,
and strew lavender over them, in case she ever come for them again.
You never heard tell of her, did you, sir?" she added, with great
simplicity, and dropping a half courtesy.

"Of her--of whom?"

"Did not Mr. John tell you her name--dear, dear; Mrs. Bertram."

Leonard started; the very name so impressed upon his memory by Harley
L'Estrange!

"Bertram!" he repeated. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes, sir! And many years after she had left us, and we had heard no
more of her, there came a packet addressed to her here, from over sea,
sir. We took it in, and kept it, and John would break the seal, to know
if it would tell us anything about her; but it was all in a foreign
language like,--we could not read a word."

"Have you the packet? Pray show it to me. It may be of the greatest
value. To-morrow will do--I cannot think of that just now. Poor Burley!"

Leonard's manner indicated that he wished to talk no more, and to be
alone. So Mrs. Goodyer left him, and stole back to Burley's room on
tiptoe:

The young man remained in deep revery for some moments. "Light," he
murmured. "How often 'Light' is the last word of those round whom the
shades are gathering!" He moved, and straight on his view through the
cottage lattice there streamed light indeed,--not the miserable ray lit
by a human hand, but the still and holy effulgence of a moonlit heaven.
It lay broad upon the humble floors, pierced across the threshold of the
death chamber, and halted clear amidst its shadows.

Leonard stood motionless, his eye following the silvery silent
splendour.

"And," he said inly--"and does this large erring nature, marred by its
genial faults, this soul which should