Millbank;

Acknowledged by every one as the daughter of the Greys, caressed and idolized by Alice, petted by Aunt Penelope, and treated by Mr. Grey with the utmost tenderness and deference, Magdalen would have been perfectly happy but for one unfulfilled desire which was the skeleton at her side. Between herself and Alice there was perfect confidence, while she was learning daily more and more to respect her father, who omitted nothing which could tend to win her love. To her mother she was the same gentle nurse who never grew weary, but who sat hour after hour by the bedside, repeating over and over again the story of the lost child, until Laura knew it by heart and would correct her at once if she deviated ever so little. There was a change gradually stealing over the invalid, a change both in body and mind. She was far more quiet, and did not rock the cradle as much as formerly, and once, when Magdalen had finished her story for the second time that day, she said to her, “I think I have heard it enough to know that baby is not in the crib, and never has been. Take it away,—where I can’t rock it again and make Arthur so nervous.”

They carried it out,—Alice and Magdalen together,—and put it away, each feeling, as they left it, as if turning from a little grave. Laura never spoke of it but once, and that was to her husband. Pointing to the place where it had stood so long, she said with a smile, “Do you see it is gone? It will never keep you awake again. Kiss me, Arthur, for I, too, shall be gone before long.”

He kissed her, more than once, and put his arms about her, and felt how small and thin she had grown; then looking into her face he saw the change which only Magdalen had noticed. The burden was lifting, the cloud was breaking, and Laura was passing away. There was no particular disease, only a gradual breaking up of the springs of life, and as the days grew longer and warmer she drooped more and more, until at last she never left her bed all day, and rarely spoke except to Magdalen, who was with her constantly. Sometimes it seemed as if there was a gleam of reason struggling through the darkness which had shrouded her mind so long, but it never went much further than such expressions as, “I think I do remember the boy with the kind voice and soft blue eyes, to whom I gave Magdalen, but I can’t quite make out how that Magdalen and this are one.”

“I would not try now; I’d go to sleep and rest,” Magdalen would say, and obedient to the voice she always heeded, Laura would grow quiet and fall again into the deep slumber so common to her now.

In this way she lingered on for a few weeks, and then died quietly one morning in early June, when her husband was in New York and only Magdalen and Alice were with her. They knew that she was failing, but they had not thought the end so near, and were greatly shocked when, at a faint call from her, they hastened to her side and saw the pinched look about her nose, the deep pallor about her lips, and the sweat-drops upon her brow.

“Let me go for aunty,” Alice said, but her mother answered, “No, Alice, there won’t be time. I’m going somewhere, going away from here, and I want you and Magda to stay. It’s getting night, and the way is dark, and life is very weary. Give me your hands, both of you, my children.”

She acknowledged Magdalen, and with a cry the young girl fell on her knees beside the bed, exclaiming, “Mother, oh mother, you do know I am your child. Call me that once more.”

But Laura’s mind was going out after one who was not there, and she only whispered, “Where is Arthur? Allie, where is your father?”

“In New York,” was the reply, and a shadow flitted over the otherwise placid face, as Laura rejoined, “Always in New York, the old, old story. I wish he was here; tell him, will you, that I am gone, and before I went I left word I was sorry I had troubled him so much. I’d like to kiss him again. Magda, let me kiss you for him; give it to him for me, and if I don’t look very bad, ask him to kiss me back, but not unless I’m decent looking. He’s fastidious, and fancies pretty faces.”

She wound her arms about Magdalen’s neck and her cold lips gave the kiss for Arthur. It was their last; they never moved again, and when Magdalen unclasped the clinging arms from her neck and laid the poor head which had ached so long back upon the pillow, she saw that her mother was dead. They telegraphed at once for Mr. Grey, who reached home just at nightfall. They had dressed Laura in white and laid her on the couch with flowers in her hands and flowers on her pillow, and as if in answer to her wishes, the old worn look had passed entirely from her face, which looked smooth and fair and younger than the face of forty is wont to look. Many traces of her soft, girlish beauty clung to her still, and Mr. Grey, when first he went into the room and drew aside the muslin which covered her face, started, and uttered an exclamation of surprise at the unexpected beauty of his wife. He did like pretty faces, and he was glad that the Laura, who lay there dead, was like the girl he had loved so passionately for a few brief months. The sight of her as she was now with the placid look on her white face and the long eyelashes shading her cheek, brought back something of his former love for Laura Clayton, and kneeling beside her he wept tears of sorrow and regret for the life which had been so full of sorrow.

“Laura, poor Laura,” he said, and his hand fondled the cold cheek which would never again glow beneath his touch, “I wish you could know I am here beside you, and how sorry I am for the past. Dear Laura, I wish you had forgiven me before you died.”

“She did, father, and I am here to tell you what she said.”

It was Magdalen’s voice which spoke and Magdalen who knelt by the weeping man, calling him father for the first time in her life! Passing the open door she had heard his words of grief, and her first impulse was to comfort him. It was very meet that there in the presence of the dead mother she should call him father, and the name fell involuntarily from her lips, sending a thrill of joy through his heart, and causing him to look up as she knelt beside him and press her closely to his heart.

“Bless you, Magdalen, my darling, my daughter; bless you for calling me by that name. I have longed so for it, have wanted so to hear it. I shall be a better man. I am a better man. I believe in Alice’s God, and here by Laura’s side, in His presence and yours, I acknowledge my past transgressions. I renounce my infidel notions, in which I really never did believe. I wish to be forgiven. I pray that Jessie and Laura, both of whom I wronged, may have met together in the Heaven to which I am unfit to go.”

He was talking more to himself than to Magdalen, who, when he had finished, told him of Laura’s last moments, omitting everything which could give him pain and telling him only of the kindly message left for him. “She wanted to kiss you,” Magdalen said, “and as you were not here, she gave it to me for you. This was mother’s kiss for my father;” and Magdalen’s lips were pressed against the lips of Mr. Grey, who broke down entirely and sobbed like a little child.

Could Laura have looked into that room, she surely would have been satisfied with the tears and kisses given her by her husband, who sat there until midnight, and whom the early morning found at her side. Had she been always as young and fair and as dearly loved as when he first called her his wife, he could not have seemed more sad or expressed more sorrow than he did. Everything which could be done for a dead person was done for her, and her funeral was arranged with as much care as if she had been a blessing rather than a trouble to the house over whose threshold they bore her, on a beautiful summer’s day, out to the little family cemetery on the hillside, where they buried her beside the proud old woman, who made no demur when the plebeian form was laid beside her.