dal
connected with his name; there was no bewildering explanation of
things that might have seemed incredible. All was quieted, and even
hate itself was buried in the grave of the dead.

The death of Hilda gave a shock to those who had known her, even
though they had suffered by her; but there was another thing which
gave sadness in the midst of new-found happiness. When Mrs. Hart had
left the room, after that eventful evening when she had found Lord
Chetwynde and Zillah, she was taken to her bed. From that bed she was
destined never to rise again. During the last few months she had
suffered more than she could bear. Had she lived in quiet at
Chetwynde, life might possibly have been prolonged for a few years.
But the illness which she had at Chetwynde had worn her down; and she
had scarce risen from her bed, and begun to totter about the house,
than she fled on a wild and desperate errand. She had gone, half
dying, to Florence, to search after Lord Chetwynde, so as to warn him
of what she suspected. Her anxiety for him had given her a fitful and
spasmodic strength, which had sustained her. The little jewelry which
she possessed furnished the means for prolonging a life which she
only cherished till she might find Lord Chetwynde. For weeks she had
kept up her search, growing feebler every day, and every day spending
more and more of her little store, struggling vehemently against that
mortal weakness which she felt in all her frame, and bearing up
constantly even amidst despair. At last Obed Chute had found her. She
had seen "her boy"--she had found him with Zillah. The danger which
she had feared seemed to her to have been averted, she knew not how;
and her cup was full.

A mighty revulsion of feeling took place from the depths of despair
to the heights of happiness. Her purpose was realized. There was
nothing more to live for.

But now, since that purpose was gained, the false strength which had
sustained her so long gave way utterly. Her weary frame was at last
extended upon a bed from which she would no longer be compelled to
rise for the watch and the march and the vigil. Her labor was over.
Now came the reaction. Rapidly she yielded. It seemed as though joy
had killed her. Not so. A great purpose had given her a fictitious
strength; and now, when the purpose was accomplished, the strength
departed, and a weakness set in commensurate with the strength--the
weakness of approaching dissolution.

She herself knew