that all was over. She would not have it otherwise.
She was glad that it was so. It was with her now a time to chant a
_nunc dimittis_--welcome death! Life had nothing more to offer.

Once again Zillah stood at her bedside, constant and loved and
loving. But there was one whose presence inspired a deeper joy, for
whom her dying eyes watched--dying eyes wistful in their watch for
him. How she had watched during the past months! How those eyes had
strained themselves through the throngs of passers-by at Florence,
while, day by day, the light of hope grew dimmer! Now they waited for
his coming, and his approach never failed to bring to them the
kindling light of perfect joy.

Lord Chetwynde himself was true to that fond affection which he had
always expressed for her and shown. He showed himself eager to give
up all pleasures and all recreations for the sake of being by her
bedside.

[Illustration: "My Boy, Have You Ever Heard About Your Mother?"]

On this Obed Chute used to look with eyes that sometimes glistened
with manly tears.

Days passed on, and Mrs. Hart grew weaker. It was possible to count
the hours that remained for mortal life. A strange desolation arose
in Lord Chetwynde's heart as the prospect of her end lowered before
him.

One day Mrs. Hart was alone with him. Obed Chute had called away
Zillah for some purpose or other. Before doing so he had whispered
something to the dying woman. As they left she held out her hand to
Lord Chetwynde.

"Come here and sit nearer," she wailed forth--"nearer; take my hand,
and listen."

Lord Chetwynde did so. He sat in a chair by the bedside, and held her
hand. Mrs. Hart lay for a moment looking at him with an earnest and
inexplicable gaze.

"Oh!" she moaned, "my boy--my little Guy! can you bear what I am
going to say? Bear it! Be merciful! I am dying now. I must tell it
before I go. You will be merciful, will you not, my boy?"

"Do not talk so," faltered Lord Chetwynde, in deep emotion.

"Oh, my boy!" said Mrs. Hart, "do you know--have you ever heard any
thing about--your--your mother?"

"My mother?"

"Yes."

"No; nothing except that she died when I was an infant."

"Oh, my boy! she did not die, though death would have been a
blessing."

A thrill passed through Lord Chetwynde.

"Nurse! nurse!" he cried--"my dear old nurse, what is it that you
mean? My mother? She did not die? Is she alive? In the name of God,
tell me all!"

"My boy!" said Mrs.