CHAPTER LXXXIV.
IN WHICH CHRISTIANA GOES OVER; AND DAN LOFTUS COMES HOME.
This evening Lily Walsingham was early tired and very weak, Sally thought, and more glad than usual to lie down in her bed; and there her old and loving nurse fancied that she looked a little strange, and that her thoughts sometimes wandered.
She lay very quietly for a good while, and suddenly, with a beautiful look, and in a clear, glad voice, she said-- 'Mother!' And old Sally said-- 'There's no one, dear Miss Lily, but me.' But she was looking earnestly, and, with a wrapt smile, only said-- 'Oh!' She thought she saw her, I believe.
Are these always illusions?
Or is it only that, as the twilight deepens, and the shapes of earth melt into night, the stars of heaven, changeless and serene, reveal themselves, and shine out to the darkened eyes of mortals?
As Aunt Becky sat that night in the drawing-room with her niece, a maid, with a whisper, placed a little note in Miss Gertrude's hand.

There was a little pause.
'Oh! aunt--oh!' and she looked so terrified.

'Oh! aunt,' and she threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and began crying wildly.

'Poor Lily's gone--there's the note.' Then arose the wild wailing of unavailing grief, and sobs, mixed with early recollections of childhood, and all poor Lily's sweet traits poured out.
Old Aunt Rebecca took the note.

Her stoicism was the point on which she piqued herself most.