bedside, and, with the shaded lamp behind her, sat down to read—if it were possible. For some time, by a resolute effort, her eye travelled down the page; she turned it, and her eye travelled down another, but she knew not what she read, her thoughts were far away. Finally, she closed the book, and sat motionless, with folded hands, her eyes fixed on the wall opposite, where the circular shadow of the lamp fell, and where, in the corner near the window, a shaft of white moonlight streamed in through the shutters.
How long she had sat there she knew not, when she heard Hatty's voice, weak, but distinct, ask what o'clock it was. She stretched out a feverish hand from the bed at the same time, and laid it on Elizabeth's.
"It is nearly midnight," replied the other, looking at her watch. "You have slept for some hours, dear."
"And I feel—better able to talk—which I want to do, before—before I go, Lizzie. But—give me something to drink; I am so thirsty."
She gave her some lemonade, and propped up the pillow under her head. After a minute's pause, Hatty continued—
"My time now is very short—and I want to say something while I can—something which I have much at heart. You are the only woman Alaric has ever loved—the only woman he will ever marry: I have it from his own mouth."
Elizabeth's cheek flushed, and then grew pale. The eyelids quivered for an instant, but the dark light of the eyes themselves burned steadily on the face of the dying woman. She continued—
