"I knew not you ever had another sister," said Ellen; "is it long since she died?"
"More than ten years ago; but still I remember her words as if she had said them yesterday. Oh, what a fine, handsome creature she was! and good as well as fair; she was older than me by three years. This was her favourite haunt; it was she who gave it the name of 'Butterfly Dell;' all her thoughts were bright! It was on such another day as this we last sat together: she was unusually grave that day,—almost melancholy. 'I have a strange presentiment, Clarence,' she said, 'that I have not long to live:—you know all De Veres die young. I often think heaven will be like this,—only there the flowers will be brighter, and will not fade; the leaf will not turn sere, and there will be no sorrow, no pain. Clarence, I shall soon be there!' 'Say not so,' I answered, 'you are too young to die yet; stay with us,—do not leave us; why should you think you will die?' 'Clarence, the thought troubles me not; I am happy here, but I shall be still happier there!
"I hear a voice you cannot hear, which says I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see, which beckons me away."
I shall soon be there!'—pointing to the blue sky, 'and roaming in fairer scenes than this, with the holy angels for companions. Clarence, you must come there too!' 'Augusta, do not, I entreat you do not; you are made to shine in this world yet,—to be a star of fashion and beauty,' I exclaimed. 'No, I shall be a star there,—I do not wish to shine here. This world, darling, is fleeting and vain, and its pleasures unsatisfying. I have learned to love a better world, which is fixed, eternal, unchangeable,—whose pleasures are real and substantial. Clarence, you must be good, and meet me there! There I shall meet little Arthur, and see his pretty face again: and we will watch for you!' She said more, much more than I can remember, and which I would I thought of oftener. Oh! Ellen, I seem to hear her yet! When we reached home, a sad—sad scene awaited us; my father, the Earl, had been borne home lifeless. Riding across country, and being a bold, fearless equestrian, he had put his horse to a fence too high for it; the animal refused the leap; my father reined it back, and then, riding forward, showed it, by spur and whip, that it must take it. The horse rose, but not high enough,—my father helped it by lifting its head: it was vain!—horse and horseman fell heavily; the horse soon rose,—not so its rider, who still detained the steed by the bridle, clenched in the hand of the dead. There he was found by Wilton, and borne home by four foresters. I shall never forget Augusta's grief,—it was long, bitter, unavailing. My mother was then in England; and I, now an Earl, strove to conceal my own sorrow, and soothe Augusta's; but she refused to be comforted, and took to her bed with a fever, brought on by excessive sorrow. Her presentiment was too sadly true; and within a week she was laid side by side with her father in the old family vault, in the west tower. Since then I have grown a man, and mingled in the world; but, if deadened by time, my sorrow is still quick in my breast, and the dying words of my sister ring distinct and clear in my ears!"
"How sad! No wonder your feelings are melancholy," said Ellen. "But you spoke of another of your family: was Arthur your brother,—and is he, too, dead?"
"He was my brother," said the Earl, "but his fate is wrapt in mystery."
"How I should have liked to have seen Lady Augusta; but do tell me about your brother, I am so interested."
"You may see a feeble attempt to stamp Augusta's beauty when we go home—her portrait hangs in the hall. Arthur's history is a long and sad one, but I will tell it to you if you are not weary."
"Oh, no, no; I am breathless with interest."
"Arthur, Viscount de Vere, was my eldest brother then," commenced the Earl. "When a child of two, or thereabouts, and just able to walk, he was taken out a turn one Sunday in the neighbourhood of the Towers by his nurse, a young girl of twenty. I was then unborn, and Augusta about three years old. When near the bosky dell, at the foot of the park, the girl left her charge for an instant to speak to a young man, a forester on my father's estates; after a few minutes she returned and found the child missing. In great alarm she searched the woods round, and fearing the little boy had strayed into the dell recalled the young forester, and the two commenced a long but fruitless search. It was not till some hours were consumed in vain attempts to find the young heir, that the girl and her lover summoned resolution enough to tell the news at the Towers. The poor young woman, in an agony of grief and terror, fell at the Earl's feet and told him all. My father, in wild grief at the loss of his then only son, and heir to the title, gathered all the servants and hurried to the spot. They searched every nook, and shouted the lost child's name—but no answer save the echoes from the wild wood was heard. Throughout the whole night, a night of storm and rain, the search was carried on by means of lanterns, and early next day, as a last resource, bloodhounds were put on the trail; they tracked the lost child to the torrent, but there lost the scent, and it was then concluded the poor boy had wandered to the water's side, fallen into the stream, then swollen by autumn rains, and been carried down to the sea. However, his little remains were never found, and may lie deep in the lone sea."