t was in them then did not come from earth. Dr. Spencer wrung his
hand, and stepped back to the bed to try another resource. Vain again,
they only seemed to be tormenting her, and the silent helplessness
prevailed again. Then Dr. May went down to Flora, told her the true
state of the case, and urged on her to give up her plan of remaining.
George joined with him, and she yielded submissively, but would not be
refused going up once again and kissing her sister, standing beside her
gazing at her, till her father came softly and drew her away. "I shall
be here to-morrow," she said to Ethel, and went.

The morrow, however, brought no Flora. The agitation and distress of
that day had broken her down completely, and she was so ill as to be
unable to move. Her aunt went at once to see her, and finding that her
presence at the Grange relieved some of Dr. May's anxieties, chiefly
devoted herself to her. Flora was grateful and gentle, but as silent
and impenetrable as ever, while day after day she lay on her couch,
uncomplaining and undemonstrative, visited by her father, and watched
over by her aunt and sister-in-law, who began to know each other much
better, though Flora less than ever, in that deep fixed grief. She only
roused herself to return her husband's affection, or to listen to the
daily reports of Margaret. Poor George, he was very forlorn, though Meta
did her best to wait on him, and he rode over twice a day to inquire at
Stoneborough.

The doctors were right, and the consecration morning was her last of
full consciousness. From the hour when she had heard the sound of Alan's
bells, her ears were closed to earthly sounds. There was very little
power of intercourse with her, as she lingered on the borders of the
land very far away, where skill and tenderness could not either reach
body or spirit. Often the watchers could not tell whether she was
conscious, or only incapacitated from expression, by the fearful weight
on her breath, which caused a restlessness most piteous in the exhausted
helpless frame, wasted till the softest touch was anguish. Now and
then came precious gleams when a familiar voice, or some momentary
alleviation would gain a smile, or thanks, and they thought her less
restless when Richard read prayers beside her, but words were very rare,
only now and then a name, and when in most distress, "it will be soon
over," "it will soon be over," occurred so often, that they began to
think it once her solac