hange of
climate. This time, a sojourn of some months in Norway was prescribed
for Mrs. Vyvyan, bracing air, and much out-door life in the pine woods.
After many weeks of slow journeying, the ladies with two of their
servants reached Norway, and took up their abode in an old chateau, in
the midst of a pine forest so-called, but a forest really composed of
many varieties of fir and spruce, as well as pine. The combined aroma of
these woods made the air fragrant for many acres around the chateau, and
for a time, it appeared to have the most beneficial effect upon the
invalid. But one quiet eve, when the summer days had waned, and the
faded leaves of another autumn fell, a pang of anguish shot through
Anna's heart. The dearly loved mother was called away.

* * * * *

A short time only had elapsed since that event, and the servants were
packing, and making preparations for the return to the manor house, when
a mounted courier arrived at the chateau, with a large package of papers
addressed in Dr. Strickland's handwriting. Very long, and full of
feeling, and minute in every detail, was the letter the good man had
written, if letter so long a dispatch might be called. He told of
Cecil's conversations, of his watchings from beside the fountain; how
every day he picked flowers, and put them on the harpsichord, saying
this is the place she loves best; and how he faded and wasted day by
day, yet struggled so bravely against the hand of death, that he might
finish his last and best picture for Anna; and how on the last day of
his life, he had laid his flowers on the harpsichord as usual, and then
desired to be carried to the library and lifted into their
great-grandfather's chair to die,--the chair that Anna had placed for
him the first time they met.

When Anna had finished reading the final words of Dr. Strickland's
letter, she rose and moved quietly into the recess of one of the large,
heavily mullioned windows, and looked down a long vista into the forest,
to the tall dark pines under which was her mother's grave. Every vestige
of color had left both cheek and lip, and she stood in the great somber
room, as cold and white and as still as the statues which adorned its
walls. The extremes of grief and joy have no speech; she had none. No
cry of lamentation went forth; no tears of relief fell from her eyes;
she knew her life was ended, but she also knew that she could not die.
Three words only escaped he