mbling hand to her brow, she peered
out towards the arbour. They were words of no particular significance
that she said; but just as the nurse came back bringing her a cordial,
she turned round and repeated them distinctly, and with a solemnity that
was almost awful.

"They all helped to dig it; and they know they did."

Words that appeared to be so far from the tragical recollection which
must have first caused this disturbance in her poor mind; but her
grand-daughter thought proper to make her some kind of answer.

"Did they, grandmother?" she said in a soothing tone, "and a very good
thing too."

She stopped short, for upon the aged face fell suddenly such a look of
affright, such renewed intelligence seemed to peer out of the dim eyes,
and such defiance with their scrutiny, that for the moment she was very
much alarmed.

"She's not quite herself. Oh, I hope she's not going to have a stroke!"
was her thought.

"What have I been a saying?" inquired Madam Melcombe.

"You said it was a good thing they dug the lily bed," answered her
grand-daughter.

"And nothing else?"

"No, ma'am, no," answered the nurse; "and if you had, what would it
signify?"

Madam Melcombe let them settle her in her chair and give her her
cordial, then she said--

"Folks are oft-times known to talk wild in their age. I thought I might
be losing my wits; might have said something."

"Dear grandmother, don't laugh!" exclaimed her grandson's widow; "and
don't look so strange. Lose your wits! you never will, not you. We shall
have you a little longer yet, please God, and bright and sensible to the
last."

"Folks are oft-times known to talk wild in their age," repeated Madam
Melcombe; and during the rest of that evening she continued silent and
lost in thought.

The next morning, after a late breakfast, her family observed that there
was still a difference in her manner. She was not quite herself, they
thought, and they were confirmed in their opinion when she demanded of
her grand-daughter and her grandson's widow, that a heavy old-fashioned
bureau should be opened for her, and that she should be left alone. "I
don't know as I shall be spared much longer," said the meek
nonogenarian, "and I've made up my mind to write a letter to my sons."

"_My sons_!" When they heard this they were startled almost as they
might have been if she had had no sons, for neither of them had ever
heard her mention their names. Nothing, in fact, was kno