found strength to utter, to sustain her soul.
Yea, in that hour her recompense had begun:
in loneliness, in secret tears, with Christian
patience and endeavour, with an exalted and
faithful spirit, had she sown; and in death
she reaped her high reward.

They had been silent for some minutes, and
she lay back exhausted, but composed, while
he sat beside her, holding her hand in his,
fancying she slept, and anxiously listening to
her breathing which seemed more than
usually oppressed. A rustling was heard amid
the flowers at the window, and a bright young
face looked in.

"Hush! " said Edward, recognising the
step, "Hush, Mary, she is asleep!"

The colour and the smiles alike passed from
Mary's face, when she glided into the room.
"Oh Edward, Edward, she is not asleep, she
is very, very ill!"

"Mary! darling Mary!" said the dying
lady, with difficulty rousing herself; "I
have had such a pleasant dream; but I have
slept too long. It is night. Let them bring
candles. Edward, I cannot see you now."

Night, and the sun so brightly shining!
The shadows of the grave were stealing fast
upon her.

Other steps now sounded in the room, and
many faces gathered round the couch; but
the blind man heard nothing—was conscious
of nothing, save the painful laboured respiration,
the tremulous hand that fluttered in his
own, the broken sentences.

"Edward, my dearest, take comfort. I have
hope. God is indeed merciful."

"Oh Edward, do not grieve so sadly! It
breaks my heart to see you cry. For her sake
be calm—for my sake, too!" Mary knelt
down beside him, and endeavoured to soothe
the voiceless anguish which it terrified her to
witness.

Another interval, when no sound broke the
stillness that prevailed; and again Mrs. Owen
opened her eyes, and saw Mary kneeling by
Edward's side. They were associated with
the previous current of her thoughts, and
a smile lighted up her face.

"As I wished, as I prayed, to die! My
children both. Kiss me, Mary, my blessing,
my consoler! Edward, nearer, nearer! Child
of so many hopes and prayers—all answered
now!" And with her bright vision
unalloyed, her rejoicing soul took wing, and knew
sorrow and tears no more.

Four months had passed since Mrs. Owen's
death, and her son was still staying at
Woodlands, the residence of Mary's father, Colonel
Parker, at about two miles distance from
Edward Owen's solitary home; hither had
he been prevailed upon to remove, after the
first shock of his grief had subsided.

Colonel and Mrs. Parker were kind-hearted
people, and the peculiar situation of Edward
Owen appealed to their best feelings, so they
made no opposition to their children devoting
themselves unceasingly to him, and striving
by every innocent device, to render his affliction
less poignant and oppressive. But kind
as all the family were, still all the family
were as nothing compared to Mary, who
was always anxious to accompany him in
his walks, seemed jealous of her privilege
as his favourite reader, and claimed to be his
silent watchful companion, when, too sad even
to take an interest in what she read, he
leaned back wearily in his chair, and felt the
soothing influence of her presence. As time
wore on, and some of his old pursuits resumed
their attractions for him, she used to listen
for hours as he played upon the piano. She
would sit near him with her work, proposing
subjects for his skill, as her old custom had
been; or she would beg him to give her a
lesson in executing a difficult passage, and
rendering it with due feeling and expression.
In the same way, in their readings, which
gradually were carried on with more
regularity and interest, she appeared to look upon
herself as the person obliged, appealed to his
judgment, and deferred to his opinion, without
any consciousness of the fatigue she underwent,
or the service she was rendering.

One day, as they were sitting in the library,
after she had been for some time pursuing
her self-imposed task, and Edward, fearing
she would be tired, had repeatedly entreated
her to desist, she answered gaily:

"Let me alone, Edward! It is so pleasant
to go through a book with you; you make
such nice reflections, and point out all the
finest passages, and explain the difficult parts
so clearly, that it does me more good than a
dozen readings by myself. I shall grow quite
clever now we have begun our literary
studies."

"Dear Mary, say rather, ended; for you
know this cannot always go on so. I must
return to my own house next week; I have
trespassed on your father's hospitality,
indulgence, and forbearance too long."

"Leave us, Edward!" and the colour
deepened in her cheeks, and tears stood in
her bright eyes. "Not yet!"

"Not yet? The day would still come,
dearest, delay it as I might, and is it manful
thus to shrink from what must and ought to
be? I have to begin life in earnest, and if I
falter at the onset, what will be the result?
I have arranged everything: Mr. Glen, our
clergyman, has a cousin, an usher in a school,
who wishes for retirement and country air.
I have engaged him to live with me as
companion and reader. Next week he comes; and
then, Mary, farewell to Woodlands!"

"No, not farewell, for you must come
here very often; and I must read to you
still, and you must teach me still, and tell
me in your own noble thoughts and beautiful
language of better and higher things than I
once used to care for. And then our walks—
oh Edward, we must continue to see the
unset from the cliffs, sometimes, together.