an apparition, or whether she imagines that
some living person enters her room at
certain times, is more than I can say; and the
old man gives me no help in guessing at the
truth. Can you throw any light on the
matter?"

"I hear of it now for the first time,"
answered Rosamond, looking at the doctor
in amazement and alarm.

"Perhaps," he rejoined, "she may be more
communicative with you than she is with
me. If you could manage to be by her
bedside at dusk to-day or to-morrow, and, if you
think you are not likely to be frightened by
it, I should very much wish you to see and
hear her, when she is under the influence of
her delusion. I have tried in vain to draw
her attention away from it, at the time, or to
get her to speak of it afterwards. You have
evidently considerable influence over her,
and you might therefore succeed where I
have failed. In her state of health, I attach
great importance to clearing her mind of
everything that clouds and oppresses it, and
especially of such a serious hallucination as
that which I have been describing. If you
could succeed in combating it, you would be
doing her the greatest service, and would be
materially helping my efforts to improve her
health. Do you mind trying the experiment?"

Rosamond promised to devote herself
unreservedly to this service or to any other
which was for the patient's good. The doctor
thanked her, and led the way back into the
hall again. Uncle Joseph was descending
the stairs as they came out of the room.
"She is ready and longing to see you," he
whispered in Rosamond's ear.

"I am sure I need not impress on you
again the very serious necessity of keeping
her composed," said the doctor, taking his
leave. "It is, I assure you, no exaggeration
to say that her life depends on it."

Rosamond bowed to him in silence, and in
silence followed the old man up the stairs.

At the door of a back room on the second
floor, Uncle Joseph stopped.

"She is there," he whispered eagerly. "I
leave you to go in by yourself, for it is best
that you should be alone with her at first.
I shall walk about the streets in the fine
warm sunshine, and think of you both, and
come back after a little. Go in; and the
blessing and the mercy of God go with
you!" He lifted her hand to his lips, and
softly and quickly descended the stairs
again.

Rosamond stood alone before the door. A
momentary tremor shook her from head to
foot as she stretched out her hand to knock
at it. The same sweet voice that she had
last heard in her bedroom at West Winston,
answered her now. As its tones fell on her
ear, a thought of her child stole quietly into
her heart, and stilled its quick throbbing.
She opened the door at once, and went in.

Neither the look of the room inside, nor
the view from the window; neither its
characteristic ornaments, nor its prominent
pieces of furniture—none of the objects in it
or about it, which would have caught her
quick observation at other times, struck it
now. From the moment when she opened
the door, she saw nothing but the pillows of
the bed, the head resting on them, and the
face turned towards hers. As she stepped
across the threshold, that face changed; the
eyelids drooped a little, and the pale cheeks
were tinged suddenly with burning red.

Was her mother ashamed to look at her?

The bare doubt freed Rosamond in an
instant from all the self-distrust, all the
embarrassment, all the hesitation about choosing
her words and directing her actions which
had fettered her generous impulses up to
this time. She ran to the bed, raised the
worn shrinking figure in her arms, and laid
the poor weary head gently on her warm,
young bosom. "I have come at last, mother, to
take rny turn at nursing you," she said. Her
heart swelled as those simple words came
from it—her full eyes overflowed—she could
say no more.

"Don't cry!" murmured the faint, sweet
voice timidly. "I have no right to bring you
here, and make you sorry. Don't, don't
cry!"

"Oh, hush! hush! I shall do nothing but
cry if you talk to me like that!" said Rosamond.
"Let us forget that we have ever been
parted—call me by my name—speak to me
as I shall speak to my own child, if God
spares me to see him grow up. Say 'Rosamond,'
and—oh, pray, pray,—tell me to do
something for you!" She tore asunder,
passionately, the strings of her bonnet, and
threw it from her on the nearest chair.
''Look! here is your glass of lemonade on
the table. Say, 'Rosamond, bring me my
lemonade!' say it familiarly, mother! say it
as if you knew that I was bound to obey
you!"

She repeated the words after her daughter,
but still not in steady tones—repeated them
with a sad, wondering smile, and with a
lingering of the voice on the name of Rosamond,
as if it was a luxury to her to utter it.

"You made me so happy with that message,
and with the kiss you sent me from your
child," she said, when Rosamond had given
her the lemonade, and was seated quietly by
the bedside again. "It was such a kind way
of saying that you pardoned me! It gave
me all the courage I wanted to speak to you
as I am speaking now. Perhaps my illness
has changed me—but I don't feel frightened
and strange with you; as I thought I should,
at our first meeting after you knew the
Secret. I think I shall soon get well enough
to see your child. Is he like what you were
at his age? If he is, he must be very,
very——" She stopped. "I may think of
that," she added, after waiting a little, "but