her
father's house, and to myself. We are both pledged never to divulge
to any living creature what our eyes alone have seen. We have kept our
terrible secret even from her father; and we shall carry it with us
to our graves. I have no more to say on this melancholy subject to the
person in whose interest you write. When he thinks of her now, let him
think of the beauty which no bodily affliction can profane--the beauty
of the freed spirit, eternally happy in its union with the angels of
God.

"I may add, before I close my letter, that the poor old father will
not be left in cheerless solitude at the lake house. He will pass the
remainder of his days under my roof, with my good wife to take care of
him, and my children to remind him of the brighter side of life."

So the letter ended. I put it away, and went out. The solitude of my
room forewarned me unendurably of the coming solitude in my own life.
My interests in this busy world were now narrowed to one object--to the
care of my mother's failing health. Of the two women whose hearts had
once beaten in loving sympathy with mine, one lay in her grave and the
other was lost to me in a foreign land. On the drive by the sea I met my
mother, in her little pony-chaise, moving slowly under the mild wintry
sunshine. I dismissed the man who was in attendance on her, and walked
by the side of the chaise, with the reins in my hand. We chatted quietly
on trivial subjects. I closed my eyes to the dreary future that was
before me, and tried, in the intervals of the heart-ache, to live
resignedly in the passing hour.

CHAPTER XXXI. THE PHYSICIAN'S OPINION.

SIX months have elapsed. Summer-time has come again.

The last parting is over. Prolonged by my care, the days of my mother's
life have come to their end. She has died in my arms: her last words
have been spoken to me, her last look on earth has been mine. I am now,
in the saddest and plainest meaning of the words, alone in the world.

The affliction which has befallen me has left certain duties to be
performed that require my presence in London. My house is let; I am
staying at a hotel. My friend, Sir James (also in London on business),
has rooms near mine. We breakfast and dine together in my sitting-room.
For the moment solitude is dreadful to me, and yet I cannot go into
society; I shrink from persons who are mere acquaintances. At Sir
James's suggestion, however, one visitor at the hotel has been asked to
dine with