child. The cook knelt by the nurse; she was chafing the cold feet of the little sufferer, and the housemaid was weeping by the cradle. Mr. Parker stood somewhat apart, near the window; his sad looks, his passive inaction, showed that human skill was vain. Lilian came forward, and the cook sprang to her feet to make way for her mistress, and the miserable mother bent down to take her child in her arms once more. But Basil resolutely held her back, and Mr. Parker interposed. "Do not," he said, "the movement would be too much." So she knelt down, and gently took the tiny damp hand in hers. The convulsions were over now; but life was fast ebbing; and in the fading twilight they watched the faint irregular breathing, and the changing face of the little one. At last, the whole frame quivered; the eyes opened as if in bewilderment and surprise; the lips trembled, the white lids fluttered, and then closed. A little sob-a half-drawn sighand there was one angel more before the throne of God! CHAPTER XIV. THE DAWN OF DAY. "It breaks-it comes the misty shadows fly; DR. MACKAY. AND the little child was laid to rest, in the dim, old chapel at Hopelands, where, for nearly three centuries, the Hopes had been gathered to their fathers. Basil stood by the open vault, while the white-robed rector solemnly read the appointed burial service for the dead, and by his side were his father and mother, and his sisters, Mary and Harriet; but Lilian was not there. Ever since the night of the child's death, she had lain like one in a waking trance. In after years, she said she could never describe her sensationsnever understand the strange, fearful torpor that seemed to envelope her faculties. She knew her boy was dead, but she felt none of those maternal agonies that might have been looked for in a woman so sensitive, so impetuous as Lilian. There was a void in her heart, a weight dull and heavy on her spirits, and a languor on her physical frame that frightened her attendants. She endured none of those sharp intolerable pangs, the offspring of mingled grief and remorse, which sometimes make reason totter on her throne; but a settled pain lay always, wearingly and consumingly, on her heart; she never tried to employ herself, she never spoke save to answer necessary questions in the briefest manner, and she seldom moved. Her hands hung listlessly by her side, her eyes, always tearless, sought no one's face, turned to no familiar object; it seemed as if the bodily form alone lay on the curtained bed in that quiet room, while the spirit slumbered or wandered far away into the shadowy regions of an unknown world. Basil never came to comfort his wife; he began to loathe the woman who had left her sick infant, to go to a gay party of pleasure; he turned indignantly from the vain, heartless mother; and the hour that should have drawn those alienated hearts once more into conjugal sympathy and tenderness passed away, leaving the gulf wider and deeper than ever. After Basil returned from the funeral of his little son, he resolved to remain no longer under his own roof. His friend, Captain Leavers, was impatient to set out on his fishing expedition, and he fretted at every day's delay. He would hear of no companion save Basil, and he would not go alone; and so, loosed from all home affections, and importuned almost hourly by Leavers, he suddenly made up his mind to go the next day, and betake himself to salmon-fishing on the Norwegian lakes and rivers for the ensuing weeks. He bade Lilian a formal adieu, and she was left alone in her solitary chamber, with no friend, no more loving attendant than her own maid. One evening, after a day of storm and wind, the sun broke forth, the rain-clouds rolled heavily away, and before nightfall the soft blue of the summer sky spread itself over the populous haunts of the noisy city, and the aristocratic precincts of the West End. Lilian rose from her bed, and, without ringing for her maid, tremulously arrayed herself in the first garments that she could find. The astonishment of the girl was extreme, when she returned from her gossip in the kitchen, and found her mistress sitting by the empty grate, exhausted almost to fainting by the exertion of dressing, and yet more by the revulsion of feeling that almost overpowered her, as she put on the garments of every-day life once more. Lilian ordered her maid to bring her some tea, and when she had taken it, she felt stronger and considerably revived. The long torpor was over, and she began to feel restless, and oh! so sore-hearted. Feebly she made her way to the drawing-room; that room that had witnessed her pride, her vanity, her agony of spirit through the dreary night-watches-and now her loneliness, her desertion, her utter hopelessShe sat down in her accustomed place, listlessly gazing at the blue sky, so vivid after the rain, and flecked with bright white clouds, driving swiftly to the ness. south. The street was very still; there seemed a ull in the hurry and bustle of London life, and the house, too, was silent as the grave. No sound of baby, laughter, no voice of childish pain or passion broke on the perfect quietude of the upper rooms; no hasty ringing of bells, no quick, manly tread ascending from the study!-All was hushed as night, or death. The stillness became to Lilian awful, then unbearable, and the tranquillity of the outer world seemed to force on her a strange unnatural composure; for, while she leaned back in her large chair, gazing at the soft blue evening sky, her breast was thrilled with anguish, her soul died within her for very bitterness and despair, and yet she kept back the burning tears that swelled under her heavy eyelids, and drove down the sobs and sighs that were longing to escape into audible life. It was a relief when the postman's sharp doubleknock thundered far down the street. Nearer and nearer it came, and Lilian was sure he was bringing her a letter, though she guessed not, and cared not, from whom. Yes, there were the two characteristic strokes at the hall-door, and a minute afterwards the page brought a letter on a salver. It was from Eleanor, a long epistle of condolence and consolation; but Lilian never tried to read it. Even the sight of that handwriting sharpened her pain; she could not bear to think of Eleanor. As she was folding up the letter, her eyes fell on a once dear and familiar name-Alice Rayner. "Do you know," ran Eleanor's epistle, "they say here that Alice Rayner is dying; and what is very strange, she is not at Kirby-Brough, nor has been this long time. In the spring she became much worse, and that old uncle who keeps one of the royal lodges in Windsor Park, would have her up to London for the best advice. You know he is her mother's brother, this Mr. Brookes, and he has often and often begged Alice to come and live with him; but she never could make up her mind to leave Yorkshire. Now, however, it seems, his only daughter and child has married, and gone to Canada, or Australia, I forget which, and he spoke so much of his loneliness, and dwelt so strongly on some new kind of medical treatment that has been very successful in cases like hers, that she thought it best to yield to his wishes. And so the old gentleman actually came here, all the way from Windsor, and took Alice home with him. At first, they say, she was better, and went out a great deal in a little donkeycarriage they keep, but when the hot weather came she drooped and faded, and now the doctors-and Mr. Brookes has spared no expense, but consulted the very best authorities say she is dying, and cannot live many weeks. How strange that Alice has been in town, so near us, and we did not know it; but if we had known, she was quite out of our circle; and even now she is within twenty miles of and you, and see could you go her if you liked: but I would advise you not, you have already had too much to endure, and your poor nerves need no further shock." Here followed more condolences, but Lilian did not read any more. Alice dying! Alice in town, without letting her know, or calling! But then she remembered how she had neglected Alice, by leaving her letters unanswered, and by writing short formal epistles, when tardy conscience at length forced her to take up her pen. Ever since her marriage this had been more or less the case, and it was not probable that Alice, during her brief visits to town, would be in a condition to pay visits, even to an old friend, and that friend, one who had so cruelly and coldly neglected her. "And yet," said Lilian to herself, "it was not that; all my neglect, all |