cried the wretched man. "O Ella! my child!
—my child! I was living, in indolence and
indifference, upon her hard-earned labours!
I was eating into her life! And when the
supply ceased, I—I never knew what it was
to have a heart!—I thought she was tired of
ministering to her father's wants, and I came
to England to upbraid her!"

"It was too late. She was gone where the
wicked cease from troubling, and where the
weary are at rest," said the lady.

"You need not—you need not—my heart
is hard, but the dagger has pierced it at last.
You need not drive in the steel: it has done
its work," he rather gasped than said.

The lady felt that she had been too severe.
His apparent insensibility had, it is true,
irritated her almost beyond bearing, after all
he had done, and after all that had been
suffered for his sake.

"I am sorry if I gave you pain. I ought
to be sorry for you, not angry."

"Did she never mention me?" he asked,
in a tone of agony. "And there was another,
ou whom her young heart doted, only too
fondly. Did she never speak of either of us?"

"She spoke of both."

"Tell me what she said."

The lady hesitated.

"I pray tell me—I can bear it."

"I am afraid I have given you too much
pain already. It is over now. Let it be
over. Go home and may God give you
grace at the eleventh hour, and bring you
and yours together again at last!" she said
fervently, and the tears starting in her eyes.

"I have no home but one; and to that
I shall shortly go. But let me not depart
tormented with a yearning desire to hear
all. Tell me; I ask it of you as a favour.
What was her state of mind as regarded her
mother—her father—and her lover?"

"God gave her grace to find Him at last.
The darkness and the doubts that had distressed
her, gradually disappeared. That
grace took possession of her heart which the
world can neither give nor understand; and
all was hope and tranquillity at the last hour.

"As she grew worse, her spirit became
more and more composed. She told me so
one day. Then she asked me whether I
thought she could recover.

"I was silent.

'' She turned pale. Her lips moved, as she
said, 'Do I understand your silence rightly?'

"'I am afraid you do.'

"She was silent herself for a short time;
then she said,

"'And so young!'

"'It is not for us to know the times and
seasons which the Father hath kept in his
own power,' said I.

"'But must I—must I die? I am not
ashamed to own it,—I did so wish to live.
Did you never hear that I had a father
living?' she asked in so low a voice, that it
was almost a whisper.

"'Yes,' I answered.

"'Then, you have heard his most unhappy
history?'

"'Most of it, I believe, I have.'

"'He seems to you, I fear, a very—very
erring man.'

"I was silent.

"'There is good in him still,' she cried;
'believe it or not who may, there is good in
him still.'

"And now her tears began to flow fast, as
she went on,

"'The will of God be done! The will of
God be done! But if it had been His pleasure,
I hoped to have lived; to have had that father
home; to have joined our two desolate hearts
together; to have brought him to the knowledge
of One whose yoke is easy, and whose
burden is light. O, was that wish wrong,
that it was not granted! O, my father! who
shall seek you out now!'

"'Remember,' I said, gently, 'we are in the
hands of One, wiser and more merciful than
ourselves. He would spare, surely, where
we would spare, if it were good it should be
so. If means would avail, He would provide
the means. His work will not stand still
because the instruments (as we regard things)
seem taken away. Your death, dear girl,
may do more for your father's soul than your
life could ever have done.'"

And now, he bowed his head—humbly—
and he covered his face with his hands, and
the tears rained through his fingers.

"Thus," the lady went on, "I comforted
her, as I could; and she died: with her last
breath commending her father to the mercy
of God.

"Her lover was dear—but not dearer than
her father. She told me that history one day.
How she had loved; how devotedly, how
passionately. But that when her name was
disgraced, she had resolved never to unite it
with his. She had withdrawn herself; she
had done it in a way such as she believed
would displease him. 'I thought he would
feel it less if he were angry,' she said. 'I
often wished in my desolation I could feel
angry.' She told me his name; and I promised
to make inquiries. I had fortunately
the opportunity. I had the pleasure to tell
her, that he had made the greatest efforts to
find her out, but in vain; that he had remained
unmarried and constant to her memory; that
what had happened had given a new turn
to his character. Habits of dissipation, which
had been gradually acquiring power over him,
had been entirely broken through. He had
accepted an office in a distant colony, where
he was leading a most useful and meritorious
life. Never shall I forget the glow of joy
that illuminated her face when I told
her so. She looked already as if she had
entered into the higher and more glorious
existence!

"'I shall not see him again,' said she; 'but
you will write to him and tell him all. You