e!--sublimer than the deeds of
heroes, the conceptions of poets, the aspirations of genius. What is
Archimedes moving the world to the humblest Christian moving heaven by
prayer!

In a corner of the room a small statue of the Immaculate Mother of God
stood upon a pedestal. The marble figure breathed all that purity and
simplicity so striking in the images which adorned the old Gothic
cathedrals. The eyes of the maiden frequently rested upon it, and as
often as sunset came, she would bid the countess place a bunch of
flowers at its feet. Thus did she continue to the end of her life the
pious custom of her infancy.

All was still in the darkened chamber, and the rich tapestry hung
mournfully from the walls. The things of earth make the earthly heart
ache in the presence of death. But how joyously the eye of faith kindled
up, as it rested on the face of the meek sufferer!

The door opened softly, a light step entered, and a female servant
whispered something to the countess. She started and looked suddenly at
Margaret. The invalid had caught the whisper, low as it was. A slight
tinge was visible on her cheek, as she pressed her white fingers to her
breast and said, in a low tone:

"God be praised! It is my father! Bring him to me."

Is this dying girl his daughter! Is this attenuated form all that
remains of his noble, his beautiful, his darling Margaret? Like a
blasted pine, the stalwart warrior fell upon his knees, with a groan as
if his heart had burst, and buried his face in the curtains. Henry, all
tears and sobs, caught his sister's outstretched hand and held it to his
heart, gazing in anguish at the ruin of his idol. Behind these knelt
Father Omehr. For a moment the man triumphed over the Christian, and he
too felt the thorn of grief in his throat. But when Margaret's calm eye
rested on him, and her meek smile beamed out, he felt the rapture which
is only known to the holy, when a soul is happily returning to the bosom
whence it came.

"Let us thank God for having thus united us!" said the Lady Margaret,
and they remained some minutes in silent prayer.

"Father!" whispered the invalid.

The broad chest was convulsed and the moan deepened, but that bent,
crushed figure made no reply.

"Father!" she repeated, as her hand fell, in a caress, upon her parent's
head.

Sir Sandrit, starting at her touch, looked up and seized the hand. A
minute had changed his face, as if a year had been ravaging there: it
was