at it be, must be subdued in the presence of a
child. Its fevered outbursts must be kept for those silent hours when no
young eyes are watching, and no young hearts will "catch the trick of
grief."

When the household is quiet and darkened,--when Madge is away from you,
and your boy Frank slumbering--as youth slumbers upon sorrow,--when you
are alone with God and the night,--in that room so long hallowed by her
presence, but now--deserted--silent,--then you may yield yourself to
such frenzy of tears as your strength will let you! And in your solitary
rambles through the churchyard you can loiter of a summer's noon over
_her_ fresh-made grave, and let your pent heart speak, and your spirit
lean toward the Rest where her love has led you!

Thornton, the clergyman, whose prayer over the dead has dwelt with you,
comes from time to time to light up your solitary hearth with his talk
of the Rest for all men. He is young, but his earnest and gentle speech
win their way to your heart, and to your understanding. You love his
counsels; you make of him a friend, whose visits are long and often
repeated.

Frank only lingers for a while; and you bid him again--adieu. It seems
to you that it may well be the last; and your blessing trembles on your
lip. Yet you look not with dread, but rather with a firm trustfulness
toward the day of the end. For your darling Madge, it is true, you have
anxieties; you fear to leave her lonely in the world with no protector
save the wayward Frank.

* * * * *

It is later August when you call to Madge one day to bring you the
little _escritoire_, in which are your cherished papers; among them is
your last will and testament. Thornton has just left you, and it seems
to you that his repeated kindnesses are deserving of some substantial
mark of your regard.

"Maggie," you say, "Mr. Thornton has been very kind to me."

"Very kind, father."

"I mean to leave him here some little legacy, Maggie."

"I would not, father."

"But Madge, my daughter!"

"He is not looking for such return, father."

"But he has been very kind, Madge; I must show him some strong token of
my regard. What shall it be, Maggie?"

Madge hesitates,--Madge blushes,--Madge stoops to her father's ear as if
the very walls might catch the secret of her heart;--"Would you give
_me_ to him, father?"

"But--my dear Madge--has he asked this?"

"Eight months ago, papa."

"And you told him"--

"