Once more we sat together by the widowed hearth, reading: once more we stood upon the rocky edge of Pedn-glas and looked into the splendours of the summer sunset "for father's ship:" once more we knelt together in Polkimbra Church, and prayed for his safe return: once more I heard that sweet, low voice--once more?
Ah, never, never more! Uncle Loveday stole into the room on tip-toe, and looked at her; then turned and asked-- "Has she spoken yet ?" "No." He was about to leave when the lips parted again, and this time she spoke-- "He is coming, coming.

Hush! that is his step!" The dark eyes were ablaze with expectation: the pale cheek aglow with hope.

I bent down over the bed, for her voice was very low.
"He is coming, I know it.

Listen! Oh, husband, come quicker, quicker!" Alas! poor saint, the step you listen for has gone before, and is already at the gate of heaven.
"He is here! Oh, husband, husband, you have come for me!" A moment she sat up with arms outstretched, and glory in her face; then fell back, and the arms that caught her were the arms of God.
After the first pang of bereavement had spent itself, Uncle Loveday got me to bed, and there at last I slept.

The very bewilderment of so much sorrow enforced sleep, and sleep was needed: so that, worn out with watching and excitement, I had not so much as a dream to trouble me.